


The One Where It's (Shockingly) Not Peter's Fault

by Monna99



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Because I am a whore for them, Derek is the Alpha, M/M, Mpreg, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stilinski Family Feels, overprotective pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 01:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11613192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monna99/pseuds/Monna99
Summary: Stiles gets pregnant. John's pretty sure his insurance won't cover that.





	1. Chapter 1

When Stiles walks into his office, John is neck-deep in paperwork and still trying to figure out how he’s going to convince the budget committee to loosen the purse strings. His department’s funds had been cut depressingly low last year.

“Hey, Dad,” his boy greets, taking a seat across from him.

“Kid, I have a fund meeting to get to with the legislature. If no one is dead or dying it’s going to have to wait.” He stands and stretches, quickly shrugging on his jacket and gathering his proposal papers. “Love you,” he murmurs, dropping a quick kiss on his son’s head.

He moves back only to stop short when Stiles grabs his jacket.

John frowns and leans closer, paying attention. “You okay?” His kid is definitely looking pale - in fact, he’s looking a little green around the edges. He puts a hand up to his forehead, but Stiles feels cool to the touch. “Is something wrong, Stiles?”

Stiles sighs and releases his hold. “No, it’ll wait.” 

John hesitates. 

“Trust me. It’s not going anywhere,” he adds with a bitter twist to his mouth.

“That’s not reassuring.”

Stiles shakes his head and gives him a push toward the door. “It’s fine, dad. One day more or less won’t make a difference.”

“We’ll talk tonight,” he promises.

 

John hates that it’s well past Stiles’ bedtime by the time he walks in the door. Not that he’s such an optimist that he believes his kid is actually asleep. He loosens his tie and sighs tiredly, dropping down onto the living room couch. It’d been a long, boring day but now that he knows things really do go bump in the night, he appreciates boring a lot more.

Five minutes later Stiles walks into the living room with an opened beer bottle in hand. 

“Jesus. Stiles, you cannot-” He breaks off abruptly when his still-teenaged son hands him the beer and then curls up next to him on the couch, head on his shoulder. John nearly drops the beer. This is probably the quietest Stiles has been since . . . since his mother died. John abruptly lifts the bottle and downs the beer. 

Those wide, fawn eyes, so much like Claudia’s, watch him silently. It’s getting eerie, but John honest to god needs a moment before he can drum up the nerve to ask. Whatever it is, he knows his kid well enough to know that it’s going to be bad. 

“Tell me, kiddo,” he finally grunts.

Stiles releases a shaky breath at that. “I’m so sorry, daddy.”

John twitches. Stiles only pulls out the big guns for really bad news. He shifts on the couch, turning to face Stiles. “You’re really starting to worry me, kid. Tell me.”

“I don’t know how.”

John grips Stiles’ shoulders tightly. “Does it have to do with werewolves?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Demons? Witches? Vampires?”

Stiles laughs shakily. “I told you not to watch _Supernatural_. That’s not good reference material, you know.”

“Are you hurt? Stiles, if you got hurt-” but Stiles is already shaking his head emphatically. “Then whatever it is can’t be that bad. As long as you’re safe.”

“I’m pregnant.”

Just for a second, for one horrible, eternal second, John is absolutely furious. Furious that Stiles is being flippant when John is working himself sick with worry. Still, he almost prefers the fury over the rush of shock at the realization that Stiles is not joking. 

“Stiles.” John clears his throat, tries again. “I don’t know … ” He trails off helplessly. Stiles absolutely cannot mean that the way it sounded. “Do you mean that you got a girl pregnant?”

Stiles closes his eyes looking pained. “No.”

John shakes him lightly. “What do you mean, you’re pregnant? You’re a boy, Stiles. That’s impossible.”

Stiles glares at him “Really, dad? Werewolves are impossible!”

“I know! I know but…” He sighs and runs a hand over his head, frustrated. “This is different. You can’t be pregnant, Stiles.”

“You’re telling me.” Stiles sits back, pulls his knees up and rests his head on them. “I’ve been pinching myself every day hoping to wake up.”

“Every day?” John swallows with effort. “How long exactly?”

Stiles sighs. “You know when I was out with Scott and we were dealing with those pixies?”

“The pixies you said were not dangerous at all?” John asks, trying to hold on to his patience. 

“Right.” Stiles winces. “Anyway, they’re magical creatures. And they had this magic circle set up in the preserve.”

“And?”

“And I may have stepped into it and been cursed?”

John grips his head. One beer is definitely not enough alcohol to deal with magical pregnancies. “Okay,” he mutters, trying to make sense of insanity. “What makes you think you’re pregnant?”

Stiles mutely reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a pregnancy test stick. 

John takes it in something like shock. There, clear as day, are two pink stripes. They hadn’t used a home kit test back when Claudia had been pregnant, is his first idiotic thought.

“Dad? Please say something.”

John jerks out of his daze. Stiles sounds so close to tears. His boy rarely cries, not since he seemed to have used them all up after his mother died. Always trying to be so strong. John tosses the stick aside and grabs Stiles up in his arms. “Shhh. I have you.”

“Sorry. Sorry, dad. I’m such a fuckup.”

“No, kid. That’s not true. You’re my son and I love you. More than anything in this world.”

Stiles starts to cry in earnest at that. Loud, heaving sobs of everything he’s kept pent up over the last weeks. Maybe even longer than that.

“Let it out, kiddo. It’s okay, I have you.” He sits with his seventeen-year-old son and rubs his back gently, letting Stiles cry onto his shoulder. “I have you.”

Eventually the sobs reduce to wet hiccups and Stiles pulls back. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs again, face flushed, though it’s hard to tell if it’s from the crying or the embarrassment. 

“You don’t ever have to apologize for needing me, son.” 

Stiles bites his lip but nods.

John reaches out and tips Stiles head up. “What made you take a pregnancy test?”

Stiles sighs. “It was Deaton.”

“The veterinarian Scott works for?” John asks, incredulous.

“Uh, yeah.” Stiles waves his hand vaguely. “He’s a spark - he’s magical and he used to be the Hale pack emissary. Back when there was a Hale pack.”

Stiles shakes his head when John opens his mouth to interrupt. 

“The thing is, after the whole cursing thing I went to Deaton to try to figure out what the pixies had done to me. I was kind of glowing.”

“Christ.”

“Anyway, it took some checking and some poking and prodding but he finally told me I’m magically pregnant. Surprise.”

“This is crazy, Stiles. Yes, even crazier than werewolves,” he snaps, then clamps his lips shut in regret. 

Stiles shrugs. “Well, at least he was able to tell me the thing inside me is human. Um, ish.”

John reels for a moment under the weight of that. It hadn’t even occurred to him to wonder whether the thing inside his son was human. He’s still trying to grasp that there _is_ a thing inside his son. “I’m going to need a hell of a lot more information on the _ish_ part of that sentence.”

Stiles nods. “It’s pixie magic. Who knows what it could have been? But they didn’t actually create it - my magic did that in reaction to theirs. Apparently, it can happen when the right mix of magic, blood, and magical creatures get involved. I’m a spark,” Stiles says before his dad can voice his objection. “I’m magical. So, this kid is definitely mine. Mine and-”

“And?” John sucks in a breath. “You mean there’s a father?” 

Stiles glares at him.

“You’re pregnant but you’re getting upset over semantics? Give me a break, kid.”

“Yes, there is another parent.”

“And you know who it is.”

“Dad, if you don’t like that I’m pregnant, you’re really not going to like the next part.”

“Who. Is. It.”

Stiles flails his arms and stands. “See? I can hear the full stops you know. That is so not good for your blood pressure. We can talk about that later.”

“Stiles,” John warns.

“Nope. No. Niet.” His son makes his way to the stairs. “Wanna hear it in Spanish? No.”

John sighs. He’s raised this kid for seventeen years - he knows to pick his battles. “Fine. For now. But we’re going to Melissa tomorrow and she’s doing an ultrasound.”

Stiles stops abruptly. “Dad,” he says quietly. “Please, no.”

John steels himself against the vulnerability. “Sorry, kiddo. That’s not an option. I have to make sure you’re okay.”

Stiles grips the edge of this t-shirt, pulling it down further and clutching at it. John stands and puts his hand over Stiles’. 

“I’m already such a freak, Dad,” Stiles whispers shakily.

John sucks in a breath and pulls Stiles into his arms, wrapping him up tightly. Like that would protect him. You’d think he’d have learned better by now. “You’re not a freak, baby. Melissa knows about the supernatural, okay? We need her to check you over because magic or not, I’m not trusting a veterinarian's word.”

 

“Rise and shine, son.”

“Ugh. No. No way.”

“You have five minutes to wallow in denial then you’re hopping in the shower, kid.”

“I’m not talking to you right now.”

His dad snorts. “Love you too.”

He makes his shower quick and doesn’t look in the mirror. There’s not much to see yet - he kind of looks like he ate one too many slices of pizza but otherwise no one could tell the difference. Except that he feels different. He’s dreading the conversation with Mrs. McCall but his dad won’t believe him until it’s confirmed. Hell, Stiles had lived in the land of denial for a good five weeks before accepting the inevitable. He’d have lived there longer but he can’t deny what his own magic is telling him. He can feel the baby inside him. Can feel - not a heartbeat exactly, but a warm pulse, like breath.

He sprints down the steps, inhaling the scent of bacon and eggs and percolating coffee.

His stomach growls loudly enough for his dad to hear and raise an amused eyebrow. “I’m making my plate first in case you inhale all the food.”

“Hey, I’m eating for two now,” he retorts, unthinking. 

His dad’s smile vanishes and Stiles kicks himself for doing that. “Sorry,” he mutters, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

He sees his dad’s gaze drop to his belly - not that he’d be able to see anything - before flushing and looking away. “I talked to Melissa,” he says, choosing to ignore the moment. “I didn’t want to tell her over the phone but I thought it might be even worse to show up at the hospital and have this conversation there.” His dad places a loaded plate in front of him - and wow, he really outdid himself. Hashbrowns and eggs and bacon and sausage links with a side of pancakes. Stiles might have to get pregnant more often. Not that he’s suicidal enough to say that out loud, of course. 

“Thanks, dad.” And he’s not just talking about the food.

His dad nods and piles on his own plate. “She said she can work something out today. She wants to look at you as soon as possible.”

Stiles winces around a mouthful of fluffy pancake but doesn’t argue. Finally telling his dad has actually made him feel like he can breathe again for the first time in weeks. Stiles isn’t so naive to think it’ll last but he’ll ride this mood upswing as long as he can.

 

 

 

John’s never been more grateful that Melissa’s a discreet, competent nurse, a loyal friend, and nearly unflappable. 

“Come on. I pulled some favors for this and I’ll have you know, while not strictly illegal, this is definitely pushing some boundaries,” she warns.

John nods and herds a very reluctant Stiles ahead of him.

“Stiles, I’m going to need you to take off your shirt. You can keep the pants on but pull them down a little, okay?”

Stiles cringes but takes his shirt off. John realizes he’s staring when his son reaches for his belt buckle. He looks away, catching Melissa’s gaze. She looks worried, though she tries a half-hearted smile to reassure him. It makes his anxiety ratcheted up a notch, instead.

Stiles clears his throat. “All set.”

Melissa jumps. “Great! Now just hop on up there.” She’s definitely more rattled than she let on over the phone.

A couple of flicks and pushes and the monitor beeps at them. John moves closer.

“Okay, we’re in business. Here comes the gel.” Melissa moves the transducer over Stiles’ naked belly slowly. “We could get a better image with a transrectal ultrasound if you-”

“No,” Stiles chokes out. God no, he thinks. He flushes to the tips of his ears. “No, this is fine.”

“Okay. If I just … there we go. Say hello to your grandkid, John.”

His dad sucks in a breath, eyes wide like he hadn’t quite made that leap yet. Hell, Stiles hadn’t made that leap yet. He thinks this may be the most scared he’s seen his dad since his mom died. 

Stiles twitches with the need to cover up. He hates that his dad is seeing him like this. It’s not fair. He wanted to be normal - he chose to be normal for his dad. What the hell was the point of turning down Peter’s offer of the bite if he was just going to end up being something even freakier? 

“Amniotic sac and placenta are both present. I’m not an obstetrician, mind,” Melissa warns, “but it looks like a normal embryo at this stage of development. We’d have to run a blood test but I don’t immediately see any reason for concern. Other than you being male,” she clarifies, awkwardly. “I’d guess maybe you’re about four or five weeks along? Is that a good estimate?”

They both look at Stiles and he winces in agreement. “Deaton told me I was pregnant … November ninth,” Stiles muses, doing the math in his head. “Yeah. Five weeks.”

John leans forward and grips the small bed railing, knuckles white. 

“Dad …”

His dad turns to him, expression fierce. “Stiles, I don’t know how difficult this is for you, but I’m here for whatever you need. Whatever … arrangements we need to make. I’ll support you one hundred percent.”

Melissa clears her throat. “There are some options you could try. I don’t know what’ll work with a magical fetus but…”

Stiles smiles at them gratefully though he thinks all he manages is a grim wince. “Thanks, but there’s no getting rid of it. We’ve pretty much run the gamut. Deaton even tried to cut it out of me.”

“He did what?!” His father interrupts harshly.

Stiles nearly rolls his eyes. “Come on, dad. Of course, I tried that. It’s not like I could go to a regular doctor. I was magically impregnated by pixies - I didn’t want a live-action remake of Alien or something. ”

His dad looks faint at that.

“Anyway, can’t be done. The spell that created it also gave it protection - and it extends to me. As it turns out,” Stiles continues, needing to make his dad feel better, “other than the fact that I’m most definitely a guy, this baby is totally normal. Ish.”

And yep, there’s the glare specifically designated for Stiles, complete with crossed arms. “Alright. We are having that conversation now. What the hell do you mean by _ish_?”

Stiles glances at Mrs. McCall. He is really not about to have this conversation with her in the room. 

She grins wryly and gives him a pat on his shoulder on the way out. “I’ll leave you boys to it.”

“Thank you, Melissa,” his dad calls belatedly. 

She waves that away. 

“You can trust her, you know,” his dad tells him, though he doesn’t look particularly upset.

“I know,” Stiles nods. “This is just … awkward.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“Jeez, dad. Give me a sec,” Stiles groans. He hops off the exam table and wipes up the gel on his stomach. He squawks when he turns to see his dad staring at him. “Do you mind?”

His dad rolls his eyes but turns his back. “Happy?”

Stiles quickly throws on his shirt. “You’re really not going to like it.”

John turns and looks Stiles over again, top to bottom. He’s been doing that more and more, anxious to see what signs he’d missed. Was he really so disconnected from his son that he'd been blind to something terrible happening with Stiles? It was a painful realization but it stopped here and now. Stiles was his whole world and John was once again putting him at the center of it. “Come here,” he tells him.

“Da~d,” Stiles whines, flushing. Still, he moves close to John.

John takes his in his arms, holds him close like he hasn’t done in years. That’s going to change too. “I love you,” he murmurs against the side of his kid’s head. 

Stiles finally relaxes and grips John back just as tightly. “I love you too, Dad.”

“You still have to tell me.”

“Way to ruin the moment.”

“Mmhmm. Start talking.”

Stiles leans back. “That may work for you when you’re interrogating some lame criminal but I’ve been interrogated by the best all my life.”

“I wouldn’t be proud of that if I were you.” John frowns. “It’s not Derek is it?”

“Dad!” Stiles screeches. “What makes you think it’s Derek’s?” 

John shrugs. “You’d have told me if it was Scott’s and you’ve been acting squirrely about it. I always thought you kinda had a thing for Hale so I figured-”

“Wrong! Completely wrong! On every level!” Stiles took a deep breath to slow his thundering heart. “Way to give me heart palpitations, Dad. I do not have a thing for Derek.”

“Okay, okay. You’re sure protesting a lot but okay.”

“Dad!”

“Quit stalling.”

Oh Christ. Stiles takes another deep breath. “Well, maybe you weren’t one hundred percent wrong. Only like … fifty percent?”

“WHAT.”

“Oh God. You lost the question mark. Did you notice you didn’t actually ask a question?”

“I’m about to lose a lot more than that. TELL ME.”

“It’s Peter Hale,” Stiles blurts in what is probably one of his worst blunders. Although, really, if his dad were to shoot Peter Hale, how much of a tragedy would it be?

His dad stares then turns around to head out the door. 

“No! Bad lawman!” Stiles sprints to block the door. “Look, I’m not defending Peter Hale.” God how weird that he was even saying that sentence. “BUT. Dad, come on, this wasn’t really his fault. Hell, he was being useful to the pack for once.” Stiles gripped his dad’s arm when he would have brushed past. “You can’t blame him for this, okay? In fact, if you do go over there raining down holy vengeance all you’re going to do is inform him that I’m pregnant with his werewolf baby!”

That finally gets through. 

His dad blinks at him, shocked. “Werewolf?” Then, “He doesn’t know?”

“Of course not,” Stiles says, exasperated. “It’s a magical baby. It’s not like we were in the woods doing the hokey pokey.”

“What?” His dad asks faintly. Faint being the operative word - his dad looks two seconds away from passing out. “No, don’t answer that. I swear to God I don’t want to know.” John sighs and sits, practically falling onto a nearby chair. “Any idea what he would do if he found out?”

Stiles shrugs. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to pay child support.” 

John frowns, foreboding. “We don’t need his money.” He stands, clapping Stiles on the shoulder. “Whatever you decide, it’ll be the two of us.” 

“Dad …” Stiles fidgets. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling but he does know he can’t deal with making any sort of decision now. 

His dad gives him a quick hug in apology. “Sorry, kiddo. This is too much right now. I didn’t mean to push. We’ll take it slow, okay?”

 

 

“Honey.” John is on his feet as soon as Stiles walks in his office door. Parrish raises a surprised eyebrow at him. “You okay? Did something happen?” His boy looks drawn and pale. 

“I’m okay, Dad. Just wanted to talk to you.” Stiles nods hello to Parrish. “Didn’t mean to barge in.”

“No, no, you’re not. You can talk to me anytime.”

“Sir.” Parrish stands. “I’ll get these filed and let the front desk know you’re busy.”

Parrish pauses at Stiles' side, he glances at him looking puzzled. "Feel better," he says after a moment.

“Thanks.”

“Come on, sweetheart. Have a seat.”

“I’m keeping it,” Stiles blurts out as soon as the door is shut. “Well, I mean, not like I can get rid of it anyway. And adoption is tricky, although Deaton said he could find a werewolf family.” Stiles stops to breathe. “But I’m keeping it.”

John sighs and runs a hand over his head. He honestly has no idea how he’s not bald yet. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know this will be a huge problem for you too. We don’t have much room. How would I even explain having a kid? How am I going to raise an infant, much less a werewolf infant? I’ll get a job, dad. I promise I’ll get a job and pay for everything. You won’t have to worry-”

“Whoa. Whoa.” John pushes Stiles down into a seat and then pushes his head between his knees. “Breathe, kiddo. Come on, nice and easy.” John strokes his back, tries to soothe that thundering heartbeat. “There you go.” John takes the other chair, hand still soothing on Stiles’ back.

“Okay.” Stiles gasps. “I’m okay, Dad.” He sits up and manages a deep breath. “Lot of drama lately, huh?” he asks sheepishly after a few minutes.

John grunts, amused. “You never do things by half.” He squeezes Stiles’s hands. “So, let’s try this again. You’ve made a choice.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “I- Dad, I want to keep the baby.”

John holds up a hand when it looks like Stiles is about to talk himself into an anxiety attack. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Stiles glares at him. “What do you mean ‘okay’?”

“I mean that I accept your decision.”

“Seriously!?” Stiles yells.

John holds his hands up in surrender. “What are you getting mad about?”

“I had to pull over twice on the way over here and nearly threw up on the side of the road and you just say ‘okay’?”

“Sweetheart.” John cups Stiles’ cheek, feeling his boy let out a sigh of relief. “I told you. Whatever you choose, I’ll support you.”

“Okay.”

 

“Dad, I’ve been doing some research.”

“I’m going to need a drink for this. Aren’t I?”

Stiles waves a book at him. “I’m having a werewolf baby. Research is important.”

“I know. I know. What did you find?”

Stiles winces. “First of all, I don’t think we’ll be able to keep it a secret from Peter.”

“Stiles,” John begins carefully. “That man-”

“I know!” Stiles pushes the book toward his dad. “Believe me, if there was a way I could avoid it I would.”

“Werewolf babies need an alpha?” John asks aloud as he reads. Stiles had highlighted the passage. “Don’t say it.”

“We’re going to have to talk to Derek.” 

“I still don’t know about this, kid,” his dad mutters even as they’re standing in front of the Hale house. 

Derek must already know they’re here. “Come on, dad. We talked about this.”

The renovations aren’t quite finished on the Hale house. The hall to the right of the entrance is sectioned off, but the living room is beautiful. Hardwood floors gleam throughout, although the only piece of furniture so far is a sectional sofa that looks like it’s seen better days. 

“What? Did Scott decide he’s not speaking to me again?” Derek asks, mocking, from his seat on a kitchen barstool. 

Stiles glares. “Way to be dick, man. I’m here on serious business.”

“I can see that.” Derek glances at John. “Sheriff.”

“Derek. It’s good to see this place coming along.”

Derek nods. “I figured it was about time-” He stands abruptly and growls at Stiles, eyes flashing red. “Stiles,” he snarls from behind clenched fangs. “What did you do?” He knocks the stool back and leaps toward them.

‘Jesus,’ Stiles thinks, ‘those are actual fangs.’

The next moment his dad is standing between him and Derek and has his gun drawn. The betas have all appeared, looking various degrees of shocked to find their Alpha growling at Stiles and the Sheriff. 

“Dad,” Stiles calls, panicked. “That won’t work.”

John pushes Stiles further behind himself and closer to the door. “I’ve made some changes to my ammo recently. Courtesy of Chris Argent.”

Derek’s eyes flash at the mention of the hunter but he finally manages to get himself under control. The fangs and claws recede, red tint in his eyes fading to his usual green. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

“What the hell was that?” Stiles asks carefully. He pushes past the hand his dad thrusts out to stop him. “What was that?”

“Why do you smell weird, Stilinski?” 

Stiles turns to gape at Boyd. “I was nearly murdered by your alpha,” he squeaks. “If I smell like I nearly crapped my pants that’s because-”

“Gross, and that’s not what he meant, Stilinski,” Jackson supplies helpfully.

“I wasn’t going to hurt you, Stiles!”

John still has his gun aimed at Derek. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you. You lunged at him.”

“Dad, jeez. Put the gun down.”

Slowly, the Sheriff lowers the handgun. He doesn’t re-holster it. 

“I wasn’t,” Derek says. “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he repeats when Stiles looks unconvinced. He reaches a hand out. “Please, can I …”

Stiles approaches wearily. 

“Son-”

“It’s okay, dad.”

He steps close to Derek. Lets the were sniff the air around him to his heart’s content. 

“Oh, god.” Derek stumbles back. “What the hell did you do? Why do you smell like a Hale?”

“I smell like what?” Stiles stares. “How the hell is that a smell?”

“You smell like family,” Derek growls.

Stiles glares. “Well, I’m pack. Aren’t I?”

“No.” Stiles’ heart clenches painfully before Derek corrects, “You smelled like pack before. This is different. Now you smell like a blood relation.” 

“Oh.” Stiles blinks. Shit. That had not been mentioned in any of the research and it did not bode well for meeting Peter again. “About that.”

Derek grabs the stool he’d knocked over and sits, then nods to the chairs at the small breakfast table. “Start talking.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone!!! so, one thing I wanted to mention is that the steel-trap-memory-having peeps of you will likely realize that I changed the time of Stiles' pregnancy - so yeah. that's different. I went back and changed it in ch. 1. Just FYI. Also, do you guys want me to respond to comments individually? Am I being rude by not doing that? I love them and I absolutely read them and they totally inspire me and are the reason I keep writing, so I don't want you guys to think I ignore them. I love your comments! Anyhoo, let me know. And I'm lovin' the Sheriff/Chris suggestion, BTW. I'm totally down with that, I'll see if I can squeeze in some interaction between them ;D

“Jesus, stop talking.” Derek looks sick. 

Which, rude. Stiles would make an awesome addition to any family, and the Hales could totally use Stilinski genes. Might make them less inclined toward murder and mayhem. Could he have dropped that particular nuclear warhead with a bit more delicacy? Maybe. But it’s not like Stiles has experience with this sort of thing. He’d just blurted out, _I’m having your uncle’s magical baby!_ Really, how the hell was he expected to work his way up to something like that?

Yeah, he can’t really blame Derek for not taking it well.

“Who’s surprised that Stilinski’s a freak? No one? Great. Can we get lunch now?”

“Good to know nearly dying didn’t make you any less of an asshole, Jackson. Try going the distance next time,” Stiles bites out.

Jackson sneers at him, mouth open to snap back, then glances at the Sheriff and glares instead.

“Only you would manage to get yourself in this mess, Stiles,” Derek groans in disbelief. “The Fay are supposed to be benevolent guardians, protectors.” He shakes his head still looking shellshocked. “How the hell did you managed to get yourself cursed by them?” 

“Hey! This is victim-blaming and I will not stand for it.”

Erica chooses that moment to unfreeze from the kitchen entryway. She hadn’t moved since he’d dropped his little bombshell. “It’s real? You’re pregnant?”

“Unless Derek just bounced my head off one too many walls,” Stiles says consideringly. “Maybe I’m in a coma from the brain damage I sustained and this is a terrible dream.”

The Alpha turns his head slowly to meet the gaze burrowing into the side of his skull. The Sheriff very deliberately drops his hand to his gun again. “Stiles,” he grits out, “I don’t think your father is in the mood to appreciate your jokes.”

“What?” Stiles stares at his father. “Oh my god, Dad. I’m kidding. It was only three or four times.”

“Stiles!”

“Okay, two, tops.”

“I’m glad you’re finding this so amusing,” Derek growls. 

Stiles laughs and shrugs. “It’s either laugh or check myself into Eichen House, and that didn’t work so great for me the first time around.” He turns back to the Sheriff. “Seriously, Dad. I was kidding. Derek and I are total bros now.”

Derek runs his hand over his head, looking pained. “It’s concerning that you’re going to be responsible for the welfare of a child.”

“Speaking of which,” Stiles takes a deep breath. “I mentioned that there’s no getting rid of it, and this little bean is going to be a werewolf. So … can you-”

“I’ll take the child.” Derek’s tone brooks no argument. 

Stiles feels the world shift. “What?” he asks faintly.

Derek opens his mouth, then closes it, staring hard at Stiles. 

“Son?” The Sheriff grasps Stiles’ shoulder. “Are you okay?”

The rest of the betas have closed in, hovering anxiously. Stiles would badger Jackson about that mercilessly if his mouth weren’t desert-dry. 

Derek looks confused. “Do you … want the baby?” he asks haltingly. 

Stiles gives a clipped nod, trying to calm his suddenly thundering heart rate. 

“Oh. I assumed … because it’s Peter’s that you wouldn’t want anything to do with it.” Derek grimaces. “It’s also a werewolf and you’re a teenager without the means to support even yourself-”

“That is not an issue,” John grinds out between clenched teeth.

“Right.” Derek clears his throat. “Then what were you going to say?”

“This baby will need an Alpha.” He doesn’t want to think about how fast his heart must still be hammering that Erica steps forward to rub his arm soothingly. Isaac is practically vibrating in the background. “I get that you didn’t ask for this any more than I did, and I know this puts your pack at risk. I get it, and I’m sorry, but please-”

Derek looks stricken. “Of course I’ll be its Alpha. How could you think-” He breaks off.

Stiles nearly wilts in relief, which is maybe why he can’t help immediately run his mouth. “Is that emotionally stunted Derek-speak for _I love my little unborn cousin and will protect this baby with my life_?”

Derek glares. “This child will be my family, Stiles,” he says roughly. “I don’t have much of that left.”

Ouch. Way to make him feel like an asshole.

The Sheriff clears his throat. “On that note, Peter is your uncle. Any idea how he’ll react?”

Derek frowns. “I try to assume the worst when it comes to him.” 

“Is there any way we can keep him from finding out about Stiles?” John asks, looking forbidding.

Derek looks at John sympathetically. “No,” he says irrefutably. “In fact, you need to tell him as soon as possible. Now that Stiles has been here, Peter will catch his scent the moment he steps foot inside this house.”

Shit. 

His dad looks at him grimly, echoing the sentiment. 

Derek stands and places a comforting hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Take deeper breaths,” he says softly, and Stiles realizes he’s breathing shallowly. 

“Right, yeah,” he gasps.

“Son,” his dad, worriedly. He squats down next to Stiles’ chair. “I’ll be with you when you tell Peter. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“We’ll all be there,” Derek adds and Stiles sees the betas nod. Jackson shrugs but he’s shifted closer too.

Stiles shakes his head, ignoring the way his dad tenses. “I appreciate the offer but I have to tell Peter alone.”

“Not happening,” Derek growls. 

“Not your call,” Stiles snaps back.

They glare at each other in a deadlock. 

His dad clears his throat. “Stiles, I don’t want you going in alone either. Peter Hale is dangerous.”

Stiles breaks off his glaring contest with Derek. “Look, I’m not gonna lie and say he doesn’t scare me, but he hasn’t ever actually hurt me. In fact,” he adds introspectively, “in fact, he tried to protect me when we were in the woods. It would’ve been easier to leave me there but he went in after me.” He looks up at his dad. “He won’t hurt me,” he says putting in all the confidence he can muster into his tone. 

His father looks unconvinced but he finally stands, patting Stiles on the back. “All right. If you think telling Peter in private is best, we’ll defer to your judgement,” he says eyeing Derek meaningfully. 

Derek grunts in disapproval.

“Awesome!” Stiles claps his hands together, standing. He grins at them, although it feels strained. Hell, he feels like he’s been put through a strainer. “Thanks for the emotional wringer. Let’s not do that again,” he calls heading toward the exit.

Boyd is standing sentry right at the front door. 

Stiles stops. “Boyd, you’re kinda taking up a whole lot of real estate there, bud. I can’t get around you.”

The beta shifts, looking uncomfortable, but doesn’t move.

“What’s going on?” John demands, voice going full Sheriff.

Erica grins evilly. “It means that our Alpha is feeling very antsy about a pregnant member of his pack wandering around unprotected.” She shrugs. “His moodiness affects us too,” she explains, ignoring Derek’s Death Glare™. 

Stiles turns to Derek. “Seriously?” he asks gleefully. “Are you going all mama-bear on me? Mama-wolf?”

The Alpha bristles although there’s a telltale flush across his face. “It’s instinct,” he grits out defensively. 

Stiles’ lips twitch and he has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. “Right, I get it. Your biological clock is ticking. You have the overpowering urge to knit baby booties.”

“You’re not funny,” Derek huffs, exasperated. 

John grins and claps the Alpha on the shoulder. “Try living with him.”

 

Stiles is standing at the front door to Peter Hale’s apartment about to wet himself. He can almost see Peter smirking at him through the door. Stupid werewolf abilities. The other man knows he’s standing here, heart beating at the speed of a hummingbird’s wings wanting nothing more than to walk away. Except one thing he is not is a coward. He takes a deep breath and knocks.

“Do come in, Stiles,” Peter calls out, amused.

Stiles grits his teeth. Yeah, this is going to be fun. It’s still a full thirty seconds before he can actually convince his hand to reach for the doorknob. 

Peter is reclining indolently on his loveseat with a heavy, leather-bound book opened against his chest. 

Stiles nearly snorts at the clearly contrived set-up. “Look at you. If I didn’t know better I’d say you weren’t a homicidal maniac.”

“Hardly a maniac, darling.”

Stiles stares, boggled, although he’s not sure if it’s at the term of not-endearment or at Peter not denying that he’s homicidal. “Gross, don’t call me darling.”

“But we’ve gotten so close these past couple of months.”

“Uh, no. No, we haven’t. Stop being all creepy, you creeper.”

“What about all those moonlit strolls? The dinners? The late-night conversations?” Peter tosses the book aside and winks, which eww.

“You mean the stakeouts I brought a few power bars to when we nearly got killed at the cemetery? Those are fond memories for you?”

Peter grins and puts up his feet on the coffee table. 

There is something disarming about seeing a man in socks. It makes him seem less dangerous - if that man isn’t Peter Hale. The werewolf looks as imposing as ever and there’s an undercurrent of hyper-awareness, hyper-vigilance to his body that makes Stiles’ palms sweat. He wipes them on his jeans. “It’s disturbing when you pretend you like spending time with me.”

“But I do. I always … enjoy … your …” Peter cocks his head suddenly and sits up. Blue begins to glimmer on the edges of his irises.

Shit. Shit.

“... company,” he finishes faintly. He’s completely focused on Stiles now, all pretence at aloofness gone. Stiles can see his chest expand as he takes deep breaths. “Stiles,” he rumbles. His canines begin lengthening, and one claw punctures the arm of the couch as Peter grips it and stands.

Stiles flattens himself against the door.

The werewolf stops, but he’s still taking those deep lungfuls of air and now his face is shifting. Oh god. He’s losing control. Fuck, he should have listened to Derek and his dad. 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Peter growls gutturally around a mouthful of sharp fangs. 

Said the wolf to little red riding hood, Stiles thinks sardonically. 

“What is that?” Peter asks. “There’s something …” 

His tongue licks out at his teeth as though tasting a scent in the air and Christ, Stiles wishes the man wouldn’t look like he was about to feast on tender teenage flesh. “Uh, why do you look like you’re about to feast on my tender, teenage flesh?” Shit. He really needs learn to keep his mouth shut sometimes.

Peter grins, all teeth. “You smell,” he purrs, “delicious.”

Stiles does not pee himself. No sir. He is very proud of that. “Stay there,” he yelps when Peter takes a step forward. 

Peter freezes, eyes narrowing. “Calm down,” he articulates carefully, clearly. Probably not easy with all those teeth.

Stiles nearly laughs. “Yeah, there’s no time I feel calmer than when I’m facing down a werewolf who’s all wolfed out.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

And yeah, maybe that would sound more convincing if Peter wasn’t doing his best impersonation of the monster under the bed. 

The thought has only just finished forming in his head when Peter closes his eyes and clenches his fists. With claws. Ugh. Blood begins to drip steadily onto the stained hardwood flooring but a second later the teeth and claws have vanished. Peter’s eyes open to their normal hue and his face isn’t looking like a topographical mountain range anymore.

“Better?” he asks.

Oh. There is no way Peter was being considerate, right? It absolutely does not fit in with his worldview. And enough of his worldview has been upended already.

“Sure.” He doesn’t move away from the door.

“Come sit down.”

“Over by you?” Stiles asks, voice shrill.

Peter grins and takes a seat again, patting the spot next to him. 

“Uh, that’s okay. This is a very comfortable door. Beautiful. Is it oak?”

“Stiles.” Peter narrows his eyes. “Come here.”

Fuck. Was there any point to running away? Peter would probably be on him before he could so much as open the door anyway. He takes a breath and steps forward.

“Was it the Fay?”

And promptly freezes in the act of trying to walk without letting his knees buckle. It’s an unappreciated talent. “What?”

“I recognize parts of your scent, it almost reminds me of ... but none of it is making sense,” Peter growls, frustrated. “And why are you here?” he asks belatedly, suspiciously.

“I’d get to that if you’d quit talking.” Stiles pretends he doesn’t see Peter’s hands clench as Stiles approaches, pretends he doesn’t see the other man tense as if he’s about to spring. Nope, not thinking about that or he’ll bolt and probably won’t stop until he’s in Canada. “What can you smell, exactly?” he asks curiously, taking a seat.

Peter closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “It’s your scent,” he says approvingly, hungrily, which - yeah, something else to add to the list of Nope. “But it’s … fuller. More lush, richer, and there’s …” he snarls and grabs Stiles’ wrist. “Did Derek touch you?” Jesus, those are claws again, although Peter’s being careful not to break the skin. “If he touched you-”

“No!” Stiles yelps. “Jesus Christ. Nobody touched me, okay? In fact, nobody has ever touched me.”

Peter rumbles, pleased.

Ugh. That is so wrong. Also, Peter has not let go of his wrist. Stiles tries, unsuccessfully, to pull free. “Hey, no abusing the Stiles.”

Peter’s claws retract. “Tell me what happened that night with the Fay.”

“Um. Why do think something happened?”

Peter watches him closely. “Because I’ve been dreaming about you since that day.”

“That’s, ah, that’s nice? Yeah, not at all freaky bordering on ominous.”

The werewolf smirks. “They have been _very_ nice,” he agrees silkily. “But I don’t have nice dreams. My dreams are all about burning,” he adds pleasantly, making Stiles’ hair stand on end. “Only now I’m dreaming of you. Every. Night.”

Fuck. He never considered that Peter might have been affected. Also, fuck, what the hell kind of dreams is Peter having? Not that he’s brain damaged enough to ask. 

“So, why don’t you fill me in about why your scent has changed and why you smell like you’re mine.”

Peter’s voice is so even it took Stiles a minute hear the words. “What?!” He shoves off the couch, moving away from the other man. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Peter gets to his feet, eyes practically glowing blue again, “You smell like the mate to a Hale.”

“Derek said I smell like family,” Stiles blurts out.

“I’m not surprised that nuance is beyond him.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles grips his head. This is definitely not how he pictured this conversation going. “I smell like ...”

“My mate,” Peter confirms. 

Stiles is silent for all of a minute. “I’m pregnant,” he bursts out. Yup, that went about as smoothly as the last two times. At least he’s consistent. 

Peter doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. 

Stiles can’t even hear him breathing. “It’s yours,” he adds, in case Peter hasn’t quite caught on.

“I’m not laughing, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, finally, darkly. He’s not looking at Stiles, holding perfectly still like maybe he’s trying to hold himself in check. And isn’t that a terrifying thought. “Stop now.”

“It’s not a joke. Who the hell would make up something like that?”

Peter turns to stare at him blankly and Stiles hates that, hates to see that awful hollowness.

“You know I’m telling you the truth.” Stiles taps his fingers over his heart. “You _know_ it.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Uh, me telling the truth or magic baby?”

Peter grimaces. “Those dreams.” He shakes his head. “They were just dreams, it’s impossible.”

“What dreams?” Stiles demands.

“The dreams … I was dreaming of you.”

“We covered that. Still creepy the second time around, by the way.”

“It wasn’t just us, Stiles. In my dreams, we had a child. A little boy who looked like you with golden eyes. A werewolf.”

Stiles feels his jaw drop. “You mean you knew,” he accuses, strangled. “I’ve been driving myself crazy wondering how the hell to tell you and you knew?”

“I didn’t know, Stiles. If I had known ...” Peter’s hands curl into fists

“You just said-”

“I said I was dreaming about you with our child.” Peter grimaces. “I thought it was the Fay’s way of torturing me, showing me what I desire most but can never have.” Peter shrugs like he hasn’t just capsized Stiles’ world order. Again.

“What?” he whimpers.

Peter looks at him fixedly. “That can’t be a surprise to you,” he says, baffled. “I offered you the bite.”

“That’s some fine print!” Stiles squawks. “In what world does, ‘hey want to be a werewolf?’ translate to _I want you to have my werewolf babies_?”

“I told you, I wanted you to be my equal.”

“I thought you meant you wanted me to be your partner!”

“I do.”

“Not that kind of partner. Jesus.” Stiles sits down before he falls, all his energy spent in trying to keep his heart from bursting. And here he’d thought his world couldn’t get any more unhinged. “Goddamn Beacon Hills. I swear none of this would happen if we lived in Normalville, a.k.a. anywhere else in the fucking country.” He rubs at his eyes. “Did you know my dad got offered a job as a deputy in L.A.? Yeah. He turned it down because he wanted his family to live somewhere less crazy.” Stiles laughs.

Peter is staring. 

“You’re staring.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Now you’ve got it. To think, all it took was weeks of dreams spelling it out for you and my signed confession.”

Peter doesn’t rise to the bait. His gaze drops to Stiles’ belly. “You’re pregnant.”

“Why do you sound less sure every time you say it?” he complains.

“You're carrying our child,” Peter says softly, wonderingly. 

Stiles swallows, throat tight. He’d never thought Peter would actually … care. “Either that or those fairies have a wicked sense of humor.” He leans back, head resting on the couch. It’s a very comfortable couch and the adrenaline that carried him this far is depleting, leaving him burnt out. Even on the off chance Peter wants to murder him to get out of paying child support, Stiles is pretty sure the spell will protect him. “Don’t even try to murder me and hide the body,” he murmurs sleepily. “I’m lo-jacked.”

He feels movement next to him and a weight settling onto the other cushion as Peter sits. “Mmm.” Peter takes his hand and caresses the too-thin skin of his wrist. “I wouldn’t harm you. You’re one of the few people who understand me.”

Stiles opens his eyes. “Yeah, I understand you. You’re a psychopath.”

Peter makes of moue of distaste. “Don’t talk like them. That’s their misplaced morality, not yours.”

“It’s not misplaced morality,” Stiles argues in disbelief. “You were murdering people. You murdered your own niece,” he adds quietly.

His pulse jumps when Peter stills, hand tightening on his wrist. “Yes,” He says simply, finally. “Does that make you think you can’t trust me?”

“Of course it does!”

“You’re not being completely honest.” He shifts closer to Stiles. “You know me. You know I would never hurt my own progeny. You know I’m capable of that much love.”

“That much egoism more like,” Stiles mutters.

“You see?” Peter grins, though it’s more a baring of teeth. “You do trust me.”

“I don’t trust you with my dad, or Scott, or the pack, and I need them. You? Not so much.”

Peter’s eyes flash electric blue. “I won’t hurt the pack, or your father, or that idiot best friend of yours,” he growls. “I won’t hurt them because I know they would sacrifice their lives for your child. Our child. It’s in my best interest that they stick around.”

“That’s disturbingly Machiavellian.” Stiles grimaces. “At least it’s honest, though.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Stiles,” Peter says quietly. “That’s the same reason you want me around. You know I’ll do whatever it takes to keep our child safe. And you want that.”

Stiles wants to refute that, but he knows it’s useless. Peter’s right. He does believe the other man would stop at nothing to ensure the safety of their baby, and there are more hunters in Beacon Hills than ever. Hunters not allied with the Argents, hunters without a code. He needs Peter.

And Peter sees all of those thoughts unfold on his face. He smiles, though it’s bitter. “Not so easy to refuse me now, is it?”

“Fuck’s sake.” Stiles glares, standing. “Is your ego still hurt because I didn’t take the bite? Why the hell are you still hung up on that? Not like you actually give a damn about me.”

Peter moves fast, so fast, and he’s in Stiles’ space, bodies nearly brushing, hands clamped on Stiles’ arms, stopping just short of bruising strength. Stiles refuses to cry out, although he can’t do anything about his rabbiting heartbeat.

Peter’s eyes flash blue, hands tensing. “I gave you a choice because you matter. Because I wanted you to want me.”

Stiles’ opens his mouth but for once in his life, he has nothing to say. 

“I couldn’t offer you more then, you were too young, but if you’d taken my offer I would have waited.”

“Waited?” This is not the conversation he came here to have.

“I’m still waiting, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, pulling Stiles flush against his body, making him gasp. And Jesus, that is not fair. Stiles is still a virgin and Peter is totally using that against him. “Why do think I’ve stuck around this hellhole? Why do you think,” he murmurs against the pale shell of Stiles’ ear, “that I’ve been so very … helpful to you?”

Stiles’ breath shudders out of him and he wriggles his hands between their bodies, pushing ineffectually against Peter’s chest. “Because of Derek and because you’re part of the pack,” he blurts, finally.

Peter snorts dismissively. “A boy with no idea of what he’s doing and a group of children who follow him blindly. No, Stiles,” Peter runs a careful, clawed finger up Stiles’ flushed throat. “It was all for you.” Peter finally releases Stiles, letting him stumble back. “And I know some part of you knew that.”

“Nope. No. I know nothing of the sort,” he denies strenuously. 

Peter grins. “Lying to me works no better than lying to yourself.”

“I’ll have you know,” Stiles quibbles, “that I have been lying to myself successfully since I was five.”

“I want to be involved in my child’s life, Stiles,” Peter states, bluntly.

Stiles shuts his mouth and stares at Peter. 

“I won’t you let you keep me away from my son.”

Stiles looks away. “I wouldn’t,” he says quietly. “Look, I talk a lot of crap, but I know how important it is to have both parents.”

Peter absorbs that silently.

“I mean, as long as you don’t fuck it up,” Stiles warns. “You cause problems with the pack or put my kid in danger and you’re out. You’re done. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Stiles looks unconvinced. “Yes? Just like that?”

“I know you. I know you’ll do whatever you need to.” Peter shrugs. “If you cut me out, it’s because I’ve endangered our child. I accept that.”

“Right.” Stiles mentally tosses the list of ever-more gruesome tortures he’d submit Peter to if the man did something stupid. “Okay. So, that went well,” he adds after the silence stretches too long.

Peter has gone back to staring at his belly. 

Stiles tries not to twitch. 

“We’re going to have a son.” 

Stiles would snap at him to quit sounding like a broken record except that he’s still trying to process that Peter dreamed of a little boy. A son. He clears his throat. “Yeah, so, ah, you know … Merry Christmas.”

Peter laughs.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles opens his eyes to find his dad looming over him looking worried. “Dad, jeez!” He scrabbles backward, giving his head a good smack against the headboard. “Ow. Nice wakeup call.”

“Stiles. Finally. Are you okay? You sounded like you were in pain.”

He blinks, tugging his arm free where it’s caught on his sheets. “What?” He shifts, then nearly gasps when his covers rub against his morning wood. Damn, more like his morning torpedo. He coughs, trying to remember what he had been dreaming and the image of blue eyes and naked skin flash in his mind. He remembers shaky breaths and strong, warm hands that stroke and caress him, a voice that whispers in his head _you’re mine now_. “Oh fuck.” He pulls his knees up and curls in on himself trying to hide his painful erection. 

His dad frowns. He pulls back to look at Stiles, gaze skirting over his hunched position. “Oh.”

“Oh, Christ. Can you please go?”

The sheriff clears his throat. “Son, I know it can be embarrassing, but it’s perfectly natural-”

“For me to die of humiliation? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you say another word.” Stiles winds his arms around his legs and buries his head in his knees. “Sorry.” His voice breaks. “Sorry. Just … please. Can you go?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Of course.” His dad backpedals hastily out of the room. “I want to talk to you when … ah, when you’re ready,” he calls through the door.

Stiles is too horrified to answer. He is going to take a headlong dive into the river of denial. No way in hell had he been dreaming about-

About anybody. 

He throws the sheets back and flicks himself painfully. It makes him whimper in pain, but he’s still hard. So hard. God. He can almost feel the ghost touch from his dreams. The thrill and threat of unnaturally strong, clawed hands that protect and pleasure instead of threaten. Shit. It’s too much. He needs to come. He needs-

He tears his boxers off, trying not to cause himself permanent damage and bites his hand to keep from crying out as he wraps his hand around his cock, too far gone already to bother reaching for the lube in his nightstand. Five, six, seven tugs on his leaking cock and he’s shooting over his hand and his sheets, relief so sharp he nearly sobs with it.

He drops back, panting. _Damn it_. 

It would be nice to stay in bed and forget that his father walked in on his nearly-wet dream but the longer he stays in his room the more awkward things are going to get. Plus now that his dick is happy, his stomach is sounding the alarm. 

He throws his sheets in the wash and a quick shower later he’s in the kitchen scrambling some eggs for breakfast. 

“You hungry?” he calls as the front door opens.

His dad comes in rubbing his hands together, breath frosting in the cold air. “As long as there’s bacon.”

“Forget it.” He waves the spatula at his dad. “You’re getting egg whites, ham, and toast, old man. I saw those results with your cholesterol levels.”

“Damn it, Stiles, stay out of my email.”

“It keeps my mind off things.” He sets the plates down on the table. “Scott’s coming back next week and I’ll have to tell him.”

His dad turns to stare. “You haven’t told Scott?”

Stiles pulls up a chair, rubbing at his arms in a pitiful attempt to get warm. “You really think this is the kind of news I can give over the phone? I can’t be that inconsiderate.”

“Never stopped you before,” his dad mutters.

Stiles pretends to be the bigger man and chooses to ignore that. “Man, why is it so cold?”

His dad looks at him in concern. “I turned the heat on, you’ll be warm soon.”

They both look outside at the sound of a car turning into the driveway. The black SUV rolls to a stop and Chris Argent steps out into the bright sunlight. The angle and tinted windows make it impossible to see if anyone else is with him. 

“Stiles, go upstairs. Stay there unless I call you.”

Stiles stares at his dad in disbelief. “You’re acting like he’s here to shoot me. I thought we trusted the Argents - this Argent - right now. Did I miss something?”

His dad is watching Chris make his way to the front door and doesn’t move even when the hunter gives three brisk knocks. “I…”

Stiles frowns. “Dad, do you trust him?”

Johns shakes his head but what he says is, “I don’t know. This is too important, _you’re too important_ , for me to trust my instincts.”

“I am a special snowflake,” he agrees, making his dad look heavenward in exasperation, “but come on, Dad. You can’t shut everyone out on the off chance they might want to … off me. He’d make a valuable ally.”

“Sheriff?” the hunter calls and that seems to snap his dad out of his haze. 

“All right. You can stay, but let me do the talking.” He doesn’t give Stiles a chance to respond, just opens the door a few inches, his body blocking the entrance. It’s not subtle. “Chris.”

Stiles sees Mr. Argent take that in with a wry twist of his lips. His eyes light on Stiles, and he turns to the Sheriff. “You have my word, I’m only here to help,” he says, quietly. 

His dad makes some serious eye contact with the hunter then finally opens the door. “What do you think I need help with, exactly?”

Chris steps through the doorway. “I’ve been looking into the unusual weather we’ve been having lately. Abrupt weather changes are sometimes indications of something supernatural.”

“You don’t say,” John tosses over his shoulder as he makes his way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

John turns and gives him a grim look.

Chris grins, but his words are neutral enough. “In any case, I figured I’d consult some experts and I managed to track down the source of the weather disruptions.”

“Mr. Argent-”

John sets down two cups on the countertop with a soft bang, throwing Stiles a meaningful glance. 

Stiles sits down and shuts up.

“So,” John glances at the hunter. “What do your weather patterns have to do with me?” He pours two cups of coffee and sets one in front of the other man. “I’m out of creamer. You take sugar?”

“Black is fine.” Chris takes a sip, looking like he’s bracing himself and glances up at John. “You know it doesn’t have anything to do with you. The source of the unnatural weather - the source of the supernatural - is Stiles.”

Stiles drops the muffin that was en route of his mouth. “What?” 

John sits calmly at the table. “Weather hasn’t seemed all that unnatural to me. You sure you’re not wrong?”

Chris scrutinizes the sheriff. “Is that so? The fact that it was ninety-eight degrees yesterday and it’s thirty-one degrees today hasn’t struck you as strange? What about the fact that we’ve had three tornado warnings in as many weeks? I can’t even find a time when Beacon Hills ever had a tornado warning before.” He leans forward, eyes locked on John. “Like I said, I’m here to help. Stiles is in no danger from me.”

John’s eyes narrow. He opens his mouth then shuts it at the muffled thump that comes from upstairs. They look up to stare at the ceiling.

“You have company?” Chris’ hand twitches to his side, but he’s not carrying.

The sheriff glances across the room where his own gun is locked in his safe.

“Oh!” John and Chris look at Stiles and he grins weakly at both men. “Umm. Yeah. Forgot that Scott was dropping in.”

John says nothing. 

“I’ll just, ah, go say hey.” He tries not to trip sprinting up the stairs.

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Scott’s just dropping in from San Francisco, huh?”

John sighs. “How do you feel about egg whites?”

 

Stiles throws his door open and lets it snick shut behind himself. “I should have known,” he hisses. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Argent is here.” Peter’s gaze is flinty and there is a strong dose of the crazy in there. 

“Uh. Yeah.” _Shit_. 

Peter steps further into the room. “Did you think I would sit by while an Argent is near my pregnant mate?” The words are growled and his eyes are much brighter than usual.

Stiles moves forward and places a tentative hand on Peter’s shoulder, ready to snatch it back in case the were snaps at him. “It’s fine. He’s here to help.” The last thing he needs is for Peter and the hunter to be at each other's throats. Literally, in Peter’s case.

Peter snarls. “Have you forgotten what the Argents did to my family? Do you want that for our child?”

Stiles opens his mouth to argue - or maybe to be sick because Jesus Christ that image twists his stomach in ways that make him heave - when his window is thrown open. Again. “Goddamn it, that is not a door!”

Derek freezes with one leg over the sill. He looks ridiculous. 

Stiles sighs. “Oh hell. You might as well come in. And what are you doing here, anyway?”

Derek climbs the rest of the way into the room and shrugs self-consciously. “Isaac told me Chris Argent showed up at your door.” He gazes coldly at Peter. “Peter.”

“Nephew.”

Stiles would laugh at the way the two circle each other if the situation weren’t getting more fraught. A cop, a hunter, and two werewolves walk into a house. Sounded like bad joke. Or like a recipe for something awful. Like tofu burgers.

“Stiles, you’re talking out loud. And you’re making less sense than usual.” At least Peter sounds vaguely amused. Might mean he was less likely to start slashing indiscriminately. Or very discriminately - as in he might slash Chris Argent into bite-sized pieces.

“Screw you, I’m hungry. I was just about to eat when you interrupted.” Stiles crosses his arms. “All right, listen. We’ll go down and talk to Mr. Argent, but there will be no violence of any kind. Got that?”

Derek nods jerkily. 

“Peter?”

“So long as he’s not a threat, I’ll behave.”

Stiles sighs. “I get the feeling that’s the best assurance I’m gonna get.”

They troop downstairs, Stiles leading the - ha! - pack. 

Chris and his dad are suspiciously silent and unsurprised to see him being followed by the two weres. Hell, his dad even looks approving, which, what? They are definitely having a conversation later. 

“Uh.” Stiles waves behind him. “So, the party just got bigger. We’re gonna have to ask you guys to RSVP next time, you know?”

Chris stands, though he doesn’t go so far as to try to shake hands. “Hale.” He eyes Peter inimically, then turns, his eyes lingering on Derek. “You’re looking better.”

Derek sneers. “Not being hunted like an animal helps.”

Chris’ eyes narrow and the sheriff coughs.

“Okay!” Stiles claps hard, once. “Good to know we’re all getting along.” He moves to take a seat but Peter grasps his arm and pulls him back.

“You’re staying right here.”

Chris shoves his chair back, hand again going for a weapon that’s not there. “Let him go, Hale, or we’ll see if you can come back to life a second time.”

Peter snarls and the front door flies open. 

Allison cocks back the silver-tipped arrow in her crossbow. “You might want to listen to my dad.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Stiles tries to move in front of Peter but the were keeps him at his back, grip unbreakable and Derek steps to his side, eyes glowing red. “Everyone needs to calm the hell down right now.”

“I will rip your throat out like I did your aunt’s if you keep pointing a weapon anywhere near my mate.”

Allison’s eyes narrow in fury, grip tightening, and Chris Argent pulls a garrotte from his jacket pocket. His dad looks like he’s about to grab Stiles when the rest of Peter’s words register. Everyone freezes.

“What did he say?” Chris’ words sound distant, faint.

Allison lowers her bow in shock and Derek’s claws retract.

“Stiles,” his dad sounds strangled. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“To be fair-” Stiles begins.

His dad grabs his arm and yanks him away from Peter. He knows his dad only manages it because Peter lets him, and he sends Peter a telepathic _thank you_ for not escalating the situation. Though, judging by the way Peter’s eyes flare that livid, unnatural blue, he doesn’t think the were is picking up the psychic channel.

“Talk,” his dad orders.

Stiles sighs and rolls his shoulders. He might not have to worry about hunters killing him - the stress will take care of that for them. “It would be easier to get everyone on the same page first.”

“No, I don’t-”

“You need to tell us-”

Everyone begins clamoring at once. Everyone other than Peter that is, he crosses his arms looking smug. Bastard.

“Okay, enough. If you want answers, have a seat otherwise I’m throwing you all out of my house.”

Chris stares at the sheriff in disbelief. “You have no idea what this animal-”

Derek growls, claws unsheathing again and the crossbow comes up.

“Oh, come on!” Stiles smacks his hand down on Peter’s arm in case he decides to try and follow through with his threat. “How about we keep this civilized?” He turns to Peter. “No death threats. And no using the A-word,” he tells Argent fiercely. Both Argents. Allison looks taken aback, but they reluctantly assent.

The sheriff sighs and scrubs at his face. “My breakfast got cold.”

“Wha-?” Stiles bursts out laughing. “Good to know I come by my inappropriateness honestly.”

Peter looks at him and his lips quirk. 

Stiles is still laughing - more from relief at avoiding bloodshed than anything - when he chokes and abruptly stops laughing as Peter cups his jaw and strokes his thumb over Stiles’ cheek. It’s such a gentle, tender touch - and at such a bad time - that Stiles is too disconcerted to move away. Or protest. He finds himself holding his breath - unable look at his dad, and unable, for the life of him, to think of a single thing to say. 

Derek steps forward. “Peter-”

“Get your goddamn hands off him,” Chris bites out, furious. 

Peter turns to look at the hunter, then very deliberately strokes his hand down Stiles’ neck.

Chris looks apoplectic. “Why the hell are you allowing this?!” he barks just as the sheriff grabs Peter’s arm. 

“Get your hands off my son if you want to live to see yours.”

Stiles boggles at him, both because he’d never heard his dad sound so serious in his life and because he basically just as good as outed Stiles’ pregnancy.

Peter tenses but glances at Stiles and only gives a curt nod.

“What did you …?” Allison moves closer, crossbow held tightly in her hand. “What did you mean by that?”

John looks at Stiles and grimaces in apology.

Stiles shrugs. “We were going to tell them anyway, right?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Derek stares distrustfully at Chris. “Argents aren’t known for sparing the lives of children.”

Allison sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t respond. Chris looks grim.

“Can we just stop with the barbs for a second? Allison, um, hi, nice to see you.”

She looks at him, incredulous, then huffs a laugh. “Hey, Stiles. Good to see you too.” She pulls up a chair next to him, deliberately situating herself between him and Peter. 

He ignores that and Peter follows suit, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Dad, come on, have a seat.”

The sheriff finally does, with a lot of glaring in Peter’s direction.

“You can call off the hounds now,” Chris says suddenly, raising a challenging eyebrow in Derek’s direction. 

The Alpha doesn’t budge. “They’re not going anywhere.”

“Derek has the betas stationed all around the house,” Peter responds, in answer to Stiles’ questioning glance. “It’s almost like we have a reason not trust Argents.”

“Speaking of trust,” Allison bites out, “why is Peter Hale here? Why is he not dead after touching Stiles the way he did? And what did you mean,” she asks, turning to the sheriff, “about living to see his son?”

John turns to look at Stiles. “It’s your story to tell, kid.”

“Lucky me.” Stiles' leg bounces anxiously. “Well, at least the easy part is that your questions all have one answer.”

Chris taps his fingers on the table impatiently to get his attention. “I came here because something about you, Stiles, is disrupting natural weather patterns. What do these other things have to do with that?”

“Because I’m-”

Peter’s chair slams back down onto all fours loudly. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Chris stares at them suspiciously.

“Stiles, you can trust us,” Allison assures, reaching out to take his hand. 

“I do. Sort of.” He can tell that stings her. “Sorry, it’s just …”

“You don’t need to explain,” she interrupts. “We need to earn your trust. I can respect that, but it goes both ways.”

“Right.” He stands because no way can he sit through this. He already feels like he’s about to vibrate out his skin. It’s one thing to talk a good game, but he is hyper conscious of the fact that every decision he makes from now on will impact not just his and his father’s life, but his son’s too. “Look, this is going to sound insane, but bear with me. Okay?”

No one interrupts.

“Here goes. Allison, to answer all three of your questions: Peter’s here and still breathing because I went into the woods and got cursed by pixies, so now I’m pregnant with his werewolf baby.” He bites at his thumb. “Oh, right. And apparently, I’m his mate.”

Peter is lax, one ankle resting on the knee of his other leg, but Stiles can see the death grip he has on the arms of his chair.

Allison shakes her head. “Stiles, you’re not making sense. If he did something to you-”

“You’re a werewolf’s mate?” Chris demands. The hunter looks sick. “If that’s true …”

“It’s true,” Peter asserts, coldly, then he smirks. “Changes things for you a bit now, doesn’t it?”

“Mate?”

Oh, Jesus. Stiles swallows and turns to his dad. “Look, dad, I’m sorry. There is already so much crap you’re having to deal with that I didn’t want to add more.” 

His dad shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I don’t … Stiles, I don’t even understand what that means.”

“Uh.” Stiles turns to Peter, shrugging helplessly. “Actually, I’m not sure either. All the research I’ve done talks about some one true love bullshit. Also, I want to add that you’re missing the bigger shock here, which is that _I’m pregnant_.”

The sheriff looks pale and he rubs at his wedding ring. It’s a nervous habit. “Does that mean …” His voice fails him, and god, it kills Stiles to see him look so helpless. “Are you in love,” he begins again, choked, “with _Peter Hale_?” 

“What!?” Stiles just about falls when he launches himself backward. “No! Of course not!”

His father looks relieved. 

And Stiles lets him. Lets him be relieved because his dad needs that right now. He looks at Peter and the were’s gaze drops to Stiles’ chest. He glares at him fiercely, daring him to say a word.

Derek clears his throat. “Yeah, the internet has a lot of misinformation when it comes to werewolves,” he explains, not looking at Stiles.

Chris is looking at all three of them speculatively. He opens but his mouth but then glances at the sheriff and closes it again.

“Stiles.” He looks at Allison. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. Just know that I will do everything I can to fix this. We’ll help you get rid of it.”

And just like that, it’s freaking _Apocalypse Now_. Stiles throws himself at Peter, locking his arms around the were’s neck, feeling his muscles coil and tighten, ready to spring. _He’s losing control. Fuck, he’s shifting_. “Peter, don’t.” He cups Peter’s face in his hands and throws himself into his lap, uncaring if the whole damned town is watching. “Hey. Look at me,” he whispers.

The werewolf’s claws are making deep furrows on the kitchen table and he’s snarling, low vicious sounds, but he’s holding still, he’s not tossing Stiles aside. 

Stiles is so panic-stricken it takes him a second to realize that he’s hearing the betas howling outside as their Alpha pins Chris Argent to the kitchen wall and Allison holds the crossbow to the back of his neck. 

Thank god for his dad. The sheriff calmly puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder and another over the silver arrow tip that’s cutting into the werewolf’s neck. “Derek, son, let Chris go. Allison, put that bow away.”

Slowly, bit by bit Derek’s fingers unclench and Allison pulls back. 

Underneath him, he can feel Peter starting to relax. The other man places a hand over Stiles’ heart, which he now realizes is going full speed ahead. He’s also having trouble catching his breath, he realizes anxiously. Peter’s arms go around him and now it’s Stiles’ turn to be soothed. “Breathe with me, sweetheart,” Peter murmurs into his neck. “Everything is okay. I didn’t rip the Argents’ hearts out and present them to you on a silver platter like my instincts wanted me to.”

Stiles chokes and the bastard gives him a few unhelpful thwacks on the back. 

“I’m good. I’m good,” he gasps, and belatedly lifts himself off Peter’s lap, ignoring his dad’s raised eyebrows. 

The table is a goner, he thinks, trying to focus on something other than the shitshow his life has become. First thing first. “Allison, I get that you want to help,” he tells her, “but that’s not the kind of help I need. I’m keeping the baby. I’m not asking for anyone’s opinion on the matter,” he says cuttingly when Chris frowns. “I just want to know if I can count on you to help protect him from other hunters. Hunters who don’t care about the code.”

Chris rubs his hands over his face briskly. He looks like he’s aged since his dad first opened the door. “This is not what I expected to find here today, Stiles.”

John laughs, though it’s tired. “He’s full of surprises.”

Stiles doesn’t take his eyes off Allison, waiting.

“I didn’t-” She takes a sharp breath. “A lot of things have changed for me over the past few years. I don’t hate werewolves blindly.” She ignores Derek’s snort. “I was only offering to help you, Stiles. If you’ve decided to keep the baby, then that baby will be an innocent and we protect innocents.” She meets Derek’s gaze, unflinching. “A child is a child. We’ll do our part to keep him safe.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Stiles says, relieved. “Thank you.”

The werewolves don’t go so far as to express any gratitude but the tension bleeds out of Derek’s shoulders and Peter shrugs, giving a quiet, “we’ll see.”

“Great! And no one’s hearts had to be carved out.”

His dad looks at him in consternated horror. “What?”

“Ha! Kidding. Kidding.”

Allison grimaces. “It’s time for us to go, but we’ll be in touch.”

“Take care of yourself, Stiles,” Chris murmurs before closing the front door behind himself.

“Christ.” Stiles drops into the nearest kitchen chair that hasn’t been upended. “That took about ten years off my life. The betas aren’t going to attack them, right?” 

Derek shakes his head. He looks at the pictures and knick knacks that were thrown askew when he tossed Chris Argent into the wall. “I’m sorry about the mess.”

John waves that away and starts to right the chairs. “I appreciate that you want to protect my son.”

Derek nods. “I’ll see you around,” he says after a beat, looking to where Peter is still lounging in the Stilinski kitchen.

“Sure, but next time try knocking and hanging out like a normal person instead of creeping on me from the woods, you creeper.”

Derek’s eyes narrow, then he smirks. “Just following Peter’s example,” he calls back as he walks out the door.

“What?” He turns to Peter. “What did he mean? Have you been creeping on me?”

Peter looks at him exasperated. “I wasn’t going to leave my pregnant mate without protection. I’ve been camped out on your roof since you told me.”

Stiles chokes on his own spit. “You’ve what?” His voice hits a pitch that would make an alto jealous. Oh, God. He’s been masturbating like crazy. He flushes to the tips of his ears when he remembers the latest guest star in his fantasies and his heart begins to slug hard against his ribs. His mouth is dry but thankfully Peter doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to mess with his head. 

That may have to do with the way his dad is white-knuckling the butter knife. “Hale, you and I are going to have a chat, just you and me now.”

“Dad, no-”

“Stiles, when your son is born, you’ll understand. Until then, I get to protect you. Capiche?”

Stiles groans. “What are you, an Italian mobster?” He sighs and stands. “Fine, I’m sick of this day already. Do what you want. Peter, you hurt my dad and I will end you. Dad … no wolfsbane bullets.” He grabs his keys and his wallet, heading out the door. Arty’s Burgers better be open because he needs a double chocolate shake and the greasiest burger they’ve got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that Sheriff/Chris romance just does not want to happen :( ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Chapter 4

“Parrish.” Stiles opens the door wider. “Hey.”

“Your dad’s fine,” are the first words out of the deputy’s mouth.

Stiles motions for him to come in. “Uh yeah, I just got off the phone with him. Thanks for leading with that, though.”

Parrish steps inside and follows Stiles to the kitchen. “I just … understand the conclusions people sometimes jump to when a cop knocks on their door. A cop’s son in particular.”

“Right. So, what can I do for you?” Stiles asks, eyeing him over his cup of hot chocolate. His dad has taken to hiding the coffee.

Parrish stares at him a moment, pensive. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Stiles waits. He’s not very good at it, drumming his fingers restlessly on the kitchen counter. 

More silence follows.

“So, how are we doing this? Morse code? Smoke signals? Hand signals? My sign language is a little rusty-”

“I’m getting to it.” Parrish runs a restless hand over his head and clears his throat. “Look, I know this isn’t my place, but ...” His gaze flicks up to the ceiling and he frowns, head cocked.

“I’m intrigued. Go on,” Stiles prods.

The deputy focuses back on Stiles, looking grim. “Since the day you came to the police station, your father’s been … different. He’s distracted and acting strange.”

Stiles’ eyes narrow. “And?”

Parrish sighs. “Stiles, it’s an election year next year. Your father’s job could be on the line if he’s seen as unfit for the position. If it was just the distraction, it wouldn’t mean anything, but he’s been roadblocking investigations that have anything to do with the supernatural. He’s doing it to protect us and to protect his deputies, but they don’t know that. Look,” he rests his hands on his gun belt, “most of the deputies there love your father, they respect him, but he’s only just been reinstated. His position is precarious. I want to help him, but I need to know what’s going on.”

Stiles turns and dumps the rest of his drink down the drain. There are tiny flakes beginning to come down in the cool early morning sticking to the kitchen window. Slush coats the unseasonal tulips that sprung up in their yard. It’s never snowed in Beacon Hills and it’s too generous to call the watery clumps drifting down snow but the weather is still on the fritz. Maybe they’ll be in for a white Christmas yet. He rinses out his cup, conscious of the impatient deputy waiting at his back. “It probably has to do with me graduating next semester. Early empty nest syndrome and all that,” he says brightly.

Parrish’s looks unimpressed. “Really? That doesn’t explain why your scent changed overnight or why you feel different.”

 _Shit_ , Stiles thinks. Could every supernatural creature sense his pregnancy? “New body wash I’m trying out. Brings all the supernaturals to the yard,” he says, quirking a meaningful eyebrow at the man. 

Parrish coughs. “Yeah, sorry for just showing up like this.”

“In any case,” Stiles shrugs, “this really is something you should talk to my dad about if you’re worried.”

“I did.” Jordan makes his way sharply to the kitchen table. He doesn’t sit, it’s more of an aborted attempt at pacing, his precise, clipped strides reminding Stiles that he was in the military. “He won’t tell me and I know it’s because it has to do with you.”

“Right, ‘cause you and my dad talk about everything,” Stiles drawls. 

Parrish opens his mouth then simply shuts it, avoiding his gaze.

Stiles draws up sharply. “Wait … do you?” 

“Of course not,” Parrish mutters, but there’s a telltale flush spreading over his cheekbones. 

“Why are you being dodgy about this?” he asks, staring at the deputy suspiciously.

Parrish looks away. “Like I said, I want to help him. Your father’s a good man. One of the best.”

And there’s something about the way he says it, about how his voice goes unwittingly soft and how he won’t quite look Stiles in the eyes that make his own eyes widen and his mouth drop open. “Oh my god. Do you have the hots for my _dad_?”

“What!?” Parrish squawks. “Do not say that. And don’t you dare repeat that to your father.”

“You have a thing for your boss? Really?”

Wow, it’s nice not to be the one feeling agonizing humiliation for once. So that’s what it looks like.

“A little cliche, don’t you think?” he hectors further. 

If Jordan got any redder he’d start to glow, as it is, there does seem to be some steam emitting from his clothes.

“You need me to dump a bucket of water on you or something?”

“No,” Jordan bites out. He runs a hand over his head and turns away. “I shouldn’t be here, your father wouldn’t want me talking with you about this.” 

“You should come for dinner,” Stiles calls and Jordan stops in his tracks. Stiles barely manages to hide a smirk. “You know, so you can try talking to my dad again about this very important election business.”

Jordan keeps his face turned away. “Right. Yeah. That would be good.”

“And hey,” Stiles walks over and pats Jordan’s shoulder. “You go for it. I totally approve.”

“Stiles,” Parrish groans. “There is nothing to approve of.”

“Whatever you say. But just so know, I’m gonna be chaperoning.”

“Stiles-” The trill of Parrish’s phone cuts him off. He glances at the display and manages not to drop it.

“Oh, you should see your face. Is it my dad? It’s my dad, isn’t it?” Stiles sounds way too gleeful.

The deputy gathers his dignity and nods at Stiles. “I have to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”

“Try not to stare at his ass,” he calls at the retreating deputy, laughing maniacally when Jordan abandons dignity and practically sprints out of the house.

 

Stiles decides evil karma is to blame when Peter lets himself into his bedroom not thirty minutes later.

“You. What are you doing here? Didn’t my dad say he’d turn you into a eunuch if he caught you in my room?”

Peter shakes out his jacket, hair glinting from the sleet that’s coming down outside. “He’s not here and it’s getting too wet out there.”

“You could always go home.”

Peter grins at him, a sharp cut of lips that does nothing to make him seem less dangerous. “I’d be happy to. As long as you come with me.”

“To your apartment? To be alone with you? Not to sound like a Victorian debutante, but, sir, that is simply not respectable.”

The were huffs. “Neither of us has ever been respectable.” Peter casually takes off his jacket and tosses it over the desk chair. The cream-colored henley he’s wearing underneath looks devastatingly good against tanned skin and emphasizes his muscles in ways that make Stiles’ heartbeat do erratic things.

“I’m surprised you didn’t come inside when Parrish got here. You being all crazy protective and all. Or just plain crazy,” he says mostly to distract himself.

Peter looks amused. “The deputy knew I was here and, unlike you, I’m not interested in playing matchmaker to your father and his pet.”

Stiles ignores that. “I guess he’s one more person who’s going to have to know. At this point, I should probably just post it on my Facebook page. Maybe tweet about it.”

The werewolf rolls his shoulders, muscles rippling beneath the fabric. Stiles takes a seat on his bed trying to ignore that imposing bulk in the suddenly too-cozy atmosphere, in the too-small room. A room with a bed in it. Yup, not thinking about that.

“Too many people know already.”

Stiles jerks out of the daze, realizing he’s staring at Peter’s chest. He glances up guiltily having lost the thread of conversation to see the werewolf smirking at him, then he gets a jolt when Peter reaches for the bottom of his henley and yanks it over his head in one smooth sweep. 

Stiles leaps to his feet when the other man’s hands go to his waistband. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What’s with the striptease?” He backs away toward the door.

“I need a hot shower. Sleeping on a roof is not conducive to proper grooming.” Peter runs a hand over what looks like several days growth of beard and grimaces. “That should tell you how serious I am about keeping you safe, sweetheart. I’m a man who enjoys the finer things in life.”

“You sound like a spoiled, kept cat.”

Peter rumbles. “I have money, I don’t see why I shouldn’t use it to make myself comfortable.” He crosses the space between them and pushes Stiles’ shirt up, placing his hand directly against the very breakable skin of Stiles’ belly.

That wakes Stiles up fast. “No. Absolutely not.” He swats ineffectually at Peter’s hand. “Bad touch!”

“Relax, I just want to feel you, feel our son. You haven’t let me ...” Peter leans closer, hand firm on Stiles’ belly. Firm and warm and strong, fingers spread out, covering a whole lot of acreage.

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath and grasps Peter’s arm. He needs to steady himself but it feels more like he’s clinging as he leans forward, head practically on Peter’s very bare shoulder.

“I want to make you comfortable too,” he murmurs against Stiles’ ear. “I want to take you to a five-star hotel on a warm beach and spoil you, give you everything you want.” 

Stiles swallows, trying not to picture Peter lounging on a chaise while he stands in a loincloth feeding him grapes as Peter sucks on his fingers. _What the hell brain_?

The werewolf lifts his other hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, massaging deeply, gently, so that Stiles wants nothing more than to lean into him, let himself be wrapped up in Peter’s arms. His treacherous libido is whispering enticingly that it would feel so good to let Peter touch him and to touch the other man in return.

“What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” It’s probably less than convincing when he sounds so breathless. He pulls back, straightening, ignoring the way Peter releases him only in reluctant increments. “If you’re gonna shower you should do it before my dad gets home.”

Peter drops his hands onto Stiles’ waist and pulls him into his bare chest where he’s even warmer and more firm than Stiles’ dreams had him believe. His heart slugs hard against his chest, his pulse spiking in alarm. It’s definitely alarm, and not anticipation. But Peter only pulls him close, keeping him there and Stiles realizes after a small eternity that’s it’s only a hug. A warm, half-naked hug, but still a hug. He relaxes and even puts his own hands tentatively on Peter’s (massive) arms. 

Peter rumbles in pleasure, dropping a quick kiss on Stiles’ temple and lifts him away from the door. “I’m borrowing some of your dad’s clothes,” he calls as he walks out into the hallway.

Stiles’ mouth is too dry to form a reply.

He tries to focus on his winter break reading assignment to drown out the sound of the shower in the quiet of the house. It’s too easy for his eager imagination to picture Peter naked, water sluicing down his sleek, formed muscles, down to his pelvis. Stiles has plenty of experience with looking at dicks in porn but he still can’t picture what Peter’s cock would look like. He tries not to remember the bulge he’s seen in Peter’s pants. The significant bulge. He shifts uncomfortably, trying to derail his thoughts. There will be no hiding it from Peter if he gets hard and he does not need the added humiliation. 

When Peter does finally step back into his room wearing soft gray sweatpants and a white tee Stiles doesn’t have a chance to drool over him. His phone pings with a text message alert and he leaps to grab it from his desk in a desperate attempt to have something other than Peter to focus on.

“Oh my god,” he cries, happily. “Scott’s coming back today!”

“Oh joy.”

“Crap. I thought he wasn’t getting here for a few more days.” Stiles bites at his nails, anxiously. He still isn’t mentally prepared to tell Scott about the newest Beacon Hills insanity. “He says he’ll be here by two. Okay, you need to not be around by then. Vamoose,” he says, adding a shooing motion.

Peter’s eyes glimmer that abnormal blue. “Why is it a problem if I’m here?”

“You’re joking, right?” Stiles crosses his arms. “Do you just enjoy people trying to kill you? Because I can guarantee you that will happen if Scott finds you here before I have a chance to explain.”

“Because he’s a petulant child,” Peter huffs.

Stiles throws his hands up. “Look, pal, you have to find a way to tolerate his presence because I am not cutting him out of my life.”

“I know,” Peter acknowledges, mulishly.

“Hmph. And you call him a child.”

“You’re right, he’s not a child. A child can be taught. Your friend is a lost cause.”

Stiles flips him off as he types his ecstatic reply. “This is great though, he’s gonna be here for Christmas. That’s awesome.”

It takes Stiles a second to recognize that Peter is being unnaturally silent. “You cannot be seriously upset,” he groans, exasperated.

“No.” The older man’s expression is blank. 

Stiles frowns, trying to puzzle out what he’d said to make Peter withdrawal. He palms his phone, but before he can figure it out Peter grabs his jacket and throws it on over his borrowed white tee. “I need to run an errand. Call me if you need anything.”

“Wait!” It’s too late. Stiles may as well be talking to himself because the werewolf leaps out his window and is gone in a heartbeat. It’s a good thing the house across the street is for sale and stands empty or the sheriff would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

He sighs and sits at his desk, still wondering what the hell he’d said. It’s not until he opens his laptop and he sees the countdown to Christmas that Google is running on their search engine page that it hits him. Christmas. He has no idea what Peter did for Christmas last year but spending it with his family had obviously not been an option. _Fuck_. Peter hadn’t had a Christmas since about ninety percent of his family was burned alive. Somehow Stiles doesn’t think Derek and his uncle had trimmed a tree together last year. Derek. The pack. What will they be doing for Christmas? He’s been so preoccupied with his own problems he hadn’t given any thought to them. Are they all just going to have a sad, pathetic, lonely Christmas, each in his or her own little, tormented corner? Well, fuck that. The Stilinskis may not be a large family but they always welcomed people for Christmas. 

He picks up his phone. 

 

Stiles has just finished checking off his list when the doorbell rings. He glances at the clock and realizes in shock that it’s past three in the afternoon. Holy hell. Time flies when you’re strong-arming people into having Christmas with you. He races downstairs, grinning a mile wide.

Scott throws his arms around Stiles and lifts him off the ground in a bear hug the second he walks in the door.

“Whoa! Hey, no breaking the human.”

The werewolf laughs and sets him down. “Sorry, I just missed you. Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever. And wow, you’ve gained weight.” 

Stiles laughs. “Tactless as ever, buddy.”

The werewolf is still grinning, but he begins sniffing the air around Stiles curiously. “You smell nice. Is that a new cologne?”

Stiles whacks him on the arm, grinning. “Buddy ol’ pal, we have a lot of catching up to do,” he says making his way back upstairs.

“Oh my god, Stiles,” Scott whispers when Stiles tells him he’s pregnant. His voice is hushed, awed, and his eyes couldn’t possibly get any wider. “I’m gonna be an uncle.”

Stiles facepalms. “I tell you I’m pregnant and your first thought is that you’re going to be an uncle?”

“Well, yeah. I’ve never been an uncle before.” He leans back, frowning and crosses his arms. “But you’re way too young to be a dad. What were you thinking?”

He looks heavenward, exasperated. “You’re right, Scott. My bad, I should have planned this pregnancy out better. You know, waited until I was in a committed relationship and financially stable before I wandered into that pixie circle.”

“Are you being-”

“Yes, Scott, I’m being sarcastic!”

“I knew it!” his best friend crows proudly. 

_Ex-best friend_ , Stiles thinks, ungenerously. From now on his best friend will be Lydia who has been the only helpful friend. Thank god for great minds thinking alike. They were both up to their elbows in research. Even if she still hasn’t forgiven him for not telling her first.

“I’m calling dibs on godfather.”

“Scott, I’m not planning on-” He stops at the look of hurt on the were’s face.

“You don’t want me to be his godfather?”

“Oh for-” Stiles grips his head and breathes out sharply in exasperation. “All right, you can be the godfather.”

His friend immediately brightens. 

_Like a puppy_ , he thinks and he bites his lip to keep from laughing. 

“I’m gonna be the best godfather uncle ever. I’m gonna teach him everything I know.”

“That’ll take all of an hour.” Peter’s sardonic voice rings from the window.

Stiles jumps. “Shit, you bastard. I thought we had this conversation. You need to knock on the door like a normal human being.”

“But I’m not a normal human am I, sweetheart?” He brushes past a gaping Scott and sits next to Stiles on the bed. His eyes narrow and he quickly and efficiently begins rubbing his hands over Stiles' arms, shoulders, back, and neck. 

Stiles stares, dumbfounded at being molested in front of his best friend in broad daylight. Then he realizes Peter is trying to get rid of Scott’s scent. He rolls his eyes. _Werewolves_.

“Uh.” Scott sounds like he’s having a hard time breathing. “Peter Hale.” He barely manages to get the name out.

Stiles winces. “I already told you about Peter.”

“You told me you were cursed by Pixies to have his baby.”

“Right?”

Scott glares at the older man. “Then why is he scent marking you? And why is he even here?” Scott turns back to him. “He’s a murderer, Stiles. Don’t tell me you’re going to let him near that baby.”

Stiles swallows hard. Peter has stilled, the hand on Stiles’ belly curved protectively. “Scott,” he begins, uncomfortably.

“You can’t!” Scott cries. “He’s killed so many people.”

“I know, Scott.” He goes on before his friend can interrupt. “But they were responsible for murdering his family in the most horrible way they could.”

“It doesn’t excuse anything he’s done. And what about Laura? It doesn’t excuse killing her.”

“I know.” Stiles places his hand over Peter’s feeling there were tense. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying? Why is he here?”

Stiles’ hand tightens. “He’s here because I’m going to have his baby. Because,” Stiles takes a steadying breath, “I’m his mate.”

Scott blinks. “No. There’s no way.” He looks shaken. “If that was true I’d have known.”

“How could you have known? I didn’t know.”

“I would have known, Stiles. Everyone would have known. You can’t just choose not to be with your mate. For a werewolf, it’s impossible to stay away, to not bond with that person.”

Stiles frowns at Peter and the older man rolls his eyes. “For a hormone-addled teenager, yes, I’m sure controlling the call is impossible, but I am none of those things.”

Scott scoffs. “It’s not about being a teenager. I asked Deaton about it, and he told me that when werewolves find their mate, they can’t just walk away. It causes physical pain every second you’re not bonded with them.”

Stiles boggles at Peter. “Does that mean …?”

Peter shrugs. “What’s a little more pain to let you grow up after the years of torment I already endured?”

“Why didn’t you tell me? How long were you going to wait?”

Peter smiles and it may be the first genuine smile Stiles has seen from him. There’s a glimmer there of the man he had once been. The werewolf raises his hand, cupping Stiles’ jaw, thumb caressing his cheek. “The rest of my life.” 

He says it so easily like nothing could be more natural like it isn’t causing him pain. Stiles belatedly remembers Scott is still there when his friend makes a choked, shocked sound. 

“You’ll die,” he breathes. 

Peter doesn’t bother to acknowledge that.

Stiles stands and moves away from them both running an agitated hand through his hair. Just when he thinks he has a handle on this crapfest, something else comes along and beats him over the head with a baseball bat. Christ. He did not need this on top of everything else he’s already dealing with. It’s not until Peter stands in front of him and places a hand over his that he realizes he’d been pacing and absently stroking his belly.

“You don’t need to concern yourself with that, Stiles.”

Stiles eyes Peter in disbelief. “Of course I need to concern myself with this. He said you’ll die if we don’t bond.” He flushes and looks away. “I take it it's a … ah, a physical bonding?”

“I’m not dying right this second,” Peter says amused. He also doesn't answer the question. “And the bond is not something that can be forced so it’s pointless for you to worry about it.”

He tugs and Stiles lets himself be wrapped up in Peter’s arms. He ignores Scott’s agitation in the background. Like it or not, his best friend is going to have to get used to the idea of having Peter around. He sighs and pulls back. “You still should have told me,” he tells the were.

Peter shrugs.

“All right, look, since both of you are here I wanted to let you know that I want you here for Christmas dinner. The whole pack will be here. So will Allison,” he adds, nipping any of Scott’s objections in the bud.

“Sorry to disappoint, darling, but I’ve got plans,” Peter counters with such a falsely apologetic look that Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No, you don’t. You’re coming.”

Peter doesn’t respond but his raised eyebrow and crossed arms speak volumes.

“Sorry to rain on your woe-be-you torment and despair,” he says tightly, making Scott choke, “but I want _our son_ to have a good life. I want him to have awesome Christmases. I want us to have a tradition of being together.” He pokes Peter on the chest, ignoring the were’s narrowed eyes. “You’re going to be here because you said you want to be part of his life, that means all of his life, Peter.”

“It’s better if he’s not, Stiles,” Scott interjects. “If it was me, I’d rather not have a dad than have him as my father.”

“Your daddy dearest must have felt the same way about you given that he walked out of your life,” Peter growls.

“Oh my god! Would you two cut it the hell out? You’re both coming to Christmas dinner. You’re my brother,” he says, pointing at Scott. “I want you here. Besides, you can’t be a good uncle from across town. And you,” he thwacks Peter on the arm, “will be here too because your son is going to have proper Christmases with his dad and grandpa and uncle and the whole pack starting with this Christmas.”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “Our son isn’t even born yet, Stiles.”

“Consider it practice,” Stiles says with finality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi peeps! Hope you liked this chapter. There was actually a lot more I wanted to add but if I figured I'd post what I have and just include the rest in the next chapter or I'd keep postponing. Oh and out-of-left-field romance for Papa Stilinski! lol Just so you all know that's where this ride is headed: Peter/Stiles John/Parrish. I don't know how much actual romance of theirs I'll include here since they're not the main pairing, but it'll be there. Maybe I'll do a one-shot scene for them later that happens in this story. Ciao for now!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. Thank you so much for your comments!!! I swear they're the only reason this chapter managed to make it out because I was hit with the dreaded .... *drum roll* .... WRITER'S BLOCK. Yup. Can't write to save my life. But hopefully this breaks the streak, although I'm also really busy irl right now so that doesn't help.
> 
> anywho. hope you like this chapter!  
> <3 <3 <3

True to the insane weather they’re having lately, it begins to snow December twenty-third. 

Stiles downshifts gears as he pulls into the Sheriff’s station squeezing between a dually and an oversized SUV dusted with white flakes. He hops out grabbing the boxed lunches, juggling his phone and groans at the text from Peter that simply reads _no caffeine, it’s not good for the baby_. A second text adds _it’s not doing you any favors either_. He’s going to have to redact the were’s internet privileges. 

“Hey, Mai,” he calls out in greeting as he pops open the door with his hip. 

She waves him through, phone propped between her ear and shoulder. “Mr. Arboust, if your cat is missing, you really should be calling animal control,” Stiles hears her say long-suffering. He huffs in amusement.

“Yo, Dad. Hey, Deputy.”

Both men are in the office, heads bent together as they look at something on a white laptop. 

“Stiles.” His dad nods at the chair across the desk. “Have a seat, kiddo. Give us a second.”

They confer together a little more, one of the deputy’s arm over the back of his dad’s chair and the other on the desk, effectively blocking him in. His dad’s body is turned toward the younger man’s every-so-slightly. Stiles nearly rolls his eyes. He has no idea how they’re both so oblivious. He takes out the carry-out boxes while he waits, setting them on the open space on the wooden desk.

“All right, kid.” His dad closes the laptop and cracks his neck. “We’re set for now. What’d you bring? And please don’t say it involves tofu.”

Stiles opens his mouth.

“Or a salad,” his dad continues, glaring fiercely.

Jordan’s lips twitch as he gathers his files. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, excusing himself.

John leans back, raising an eyebrow. “Where are you going, Deputy? Aren’t you staying for lunch? A hopefully decent lunch,” he adds turning to his son.

“Relax,” Stiles grumbles. “I got tacos.”

His dad brightens. “Have a seat, Jordan. I asked Stiles to bring food for you too.”

Parrish stops, surprised. “That’s …” he sets the folders down. “Thank you, sir.”

Stiles hands each man a box, thinking rapidly. “So, Dad,” he begins sweetly, popping the tab on his soda as they unwrap their food. “What’s your department’s fraternization policy?”

Parrish coughs, choking on a bite of taco and grabs for his drink.

His dad drops the container of salsa - still sealed, thankfully - and pales. “No,” he says. Definitive, emphatic, all-consuming.

Stiles frowns. “Your fraternization policy is _no_?”

“That’s right,” the sheriff confirms grimly. He rights the plastic container and takes a minute, breathing deeply for a second. “Stiles. You’ll be an adult soon, I recognize that.”

“Right?” Stiles says, confused. He glances at Parrish and is surprised to find him looking mortified. 

“But I am still your father.”

“What does that have to do with anything-”

“I forbid you from dating my deputies.”

Stiles drops his taco and Parrish drops his head into his hands.

“I understand that Jordan is young and attractive-”

“Oh my god! Dad!”

“Sir, I would never-”

“He’s a good man, I can’t fault you for being interested-”

Stiles jumps to his feet and slams his hands on the desk. That gets both men’s attention and they snap their mouths shut. “I. Am. Not. Interested. In. Parrish.”

The pained wrinkle on his dad’s forehead disappears. “Oh.”

Stiles nods considering that matter laid to rest and sits, picking up his food again although it’s looking a lot less appetizing. Parrish is frozen, sitting stiffly and Stiles kicks him under the desk.

The deputy jumps and frowns at Stiles, but gets the message and turns to the sheriff. “Sir, Stiles is a great kid, but I’m not interested. You-I-” he breathes out frustrated, then simply says, “I have a great deal of respect for you.”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Stiles gripes under his breath.

Parrish flushes and his dad shoots him a glare but both men elect to ignore him. 

“That means a lot to me, Jordan. Thank you.”

The deputy reluctantly sits back and starts in on his lunch again. 

They eat silently, Stiles making sure to keep his mouth stuffed because otherwise he’s probably going to say something stupid. The way the deputy’s eating he probably thinks the same thing. 

Stiles grabs the other bag after they’re done with the main course. “I brought dessert,” he says around the last bite of tortilla. “What’s your poison, Deputy?”

Jordan shakes his head. “Actually, I should be going.” He doesn’t sound very enthused about it.

“You heading to the civil standby assist?” John asks, glancing up at the clock automatically. 

The deputy nods. “Yes. The PD advised it was happening at one fifteen.” Jordan stands and stretches and Stiles doesn’t miss the way his dad’s eyes unthinkingly follow the lithe line of the deputy’s body. “Thank you for the food, sir. Thanks, Stiles.”

“Sure, sure,” Stiles says, waving that away.

“I’ll walk you out,” John says, standing. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Stiles-” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll clean this up.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

John waits until they’re standing next to the cruiser, and clears his throat. “So, if we haven’t sufficiently traumatized you for one lifetime,” he says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, “why don’t you come spend the day with us Thursday?”

Jordan blinks. “Thursday?”

“It’d be good to have you with us.”

“That’s Christmas day.”

The sheriff grins, though the wattage looks a little dim. “You must have plans. It was just a thought. I meant to ask you weeks ago, but after everything that happened with Stiles …”

“I can understand your preoccupation,” Parrish says wryly. “And I don’t have plans. I’d love to join you.”

John grins and claps him on the shoulder. “That’s great, Jordan. Dinner’s at six but drop in anytime, we’ll have a drink.”

 

Stiles is waiting for him in his office, lunch all cleared off when he gets back in.

“So,” he drawls, sidling up to his dad. “Young and attractive, huh?”

John jerks guilty then draws himself up, expression foreboding and says in his best sheriff voice, “You are completely misconstruing-”

“Sure, sure.” Stiles throws his hands up in surrender. “You don’t want to do unspeakable things to your deputy. I get it.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” his dad groans. “You’re imagining things.”

“Riiight.” Stiles grins and hefts the bags. “But in case you were wondering, I’m totally okay with it,” he throws over his shoulder.

 

“Stiles.” Deaton doesn’t bother looking up. “I expected you back much sooner than this.” If he were a man who had emotions his tone might have been called disapproving.The tiny black Labrador puppy on the exam table whimpers as the needle goes into her scruff and the veterinarian makes low shushing sounds. 

“Yeah well, I’ve been busy.” He moves to one of the cages, grinning at another small Lab. He sticks his finger through the bars to pet it as the pup ambles toward him to investigate, tripping over his too-big paws. Stiles laughs softly. “Hey, buddy.” He scratches at the pup’s head but suddenly the Lab yips and cowers down onto his belly, trembling and yowling like he’s being torn apart.

Stiles snatches his hand back. “What the hell? I didn’t do anything.”

Deaton walks over and stands next to him. “You’re carrying a werewolf, Stiles. Werewolves are supernatural predators and other animals can sense that.”

“Oh.” He stares blankly into the cage where the pup is now huddled at the far-end, whimpering. 

He can feel the other man’s unwavering gaze on him. “Is something the matter, Mr. Stilinski?”

And suddenly, blindingly there is. There absolutely is. He hasn’t wanted to think about it, hasn’t wanted to acknowledge it but now it’s there, corporealized in that tiny, defenseless dog’s terror. Stiles tries to shut it out - doesn’t want to give it a name yet - but more fears and uncertainties crowd in, vying for first place.

“He won’t be able to have a dog.” They’re the only words he can form, a stupid thing to get hung up on, and Deaton’s raised eyebrow would agree, but somehow that, _that_ is too much. Everything hits him so swiftly and so unexpectedly that he’s left reeling. He can’t get his son a dog. Peter could be dying. He’s pregnant. He has no idea how to raise a kid, much less a werewolf. He doesn’t have a job. He won’t be able to walk at graduation. He won’t be able to finish his classes with his friends. He doesn’t even know how he’s going to physically have this kid. He might not have to worry about raising him because the birth might kill him. And that’s going to kill his dad. 

“... now!” he distantly hears Deaton bark in the background. 

There’s something … wrong with his lungs, he thinks dimly. He’s getting dizzy, vision going dark.

Even through whatever muddle clouds his mind he hears a tearing, rending crash and the savage howls of his mate. The next moment twin vises clamp around him, forcing the breath from his body. He can’t suck in enough oxygen to protest.

“Mr. Hale, you’re not helping by suffocating him.”

Stiles nods frantically and the pressure around his ribs instantly eases. He gets his hands on Peter, sucking in gulping breaths and burrows his face into the were’s neck. His heartbeat begins to slow. Already it’s getting easier to focus. 

“You said he was protected!” Peter snarls, enraged.

Stiles clumsily pats his arm, trying to soothe his mate. He doesn’t have to look down at them to know that Peter’s claws are unsheathed. “‘m okay now,” he mumbles.

“He’s invulnerable to being killed, that may not mean he’s invulnerable to death.”

“What the hell kind of sense does that make?” Peter growls, and wow that sounds like he was talking through fangs. “He’s supposed to be safe.”

Deaton is silent and Stiles feels the man take his wrist to check his pulse. “He’s safer than he’s ever been,” he says finally.

“If something happens to my mate,” Stiles’ ears perk up at the low, venomous tone and he shivers, “I will gut you.” 

Oh look, crazy Peter was making an appearance again. Stiles nearly giggles, which actually serves to sober him up. Jesus, he must be oxygen-deprived. He opens his eyes and lifts his head trying to get his bearings. He’s on the cold, linoleum floor cradled in the were’s arms and Deaton has retreated across the room. 

He shifts, trying to stand but Peter clamps down, refusing to let him move. “Hey!”

The were doesn’t look the least bit repentant. “Stay still.”

“He should be okay to stand, Mr. Hale. Your presence has already helped him immensely.”

Stiles flushes. “In a totally platonic way!”

“How are you feeling?” Deaton asks, lips curling in amusement as the takes a step forward.

Stiles shrugs. “Like I wanna hide under a rock, but other than that ...” He clears his throat. “Um. Sorry about that. Don’t know where that came from.”

Deaton looks at him, eyebrow raised. “Are you sure about that?”

Stiles opens his mouth, then snaps it shut as that nascent, insidious thought snakes through his mind again, making him clutch at his chest as his heart constricts painfully. 

Peter roars - a maddened vocalization of helplessness as he senses his mate’s distress. And at that moment, almost in response, the tiny little aura inside him brightens. 

_Oh_ , Stiles thinks, wonderingly. He can feel him. He can feel his son, a delicate little warm glow that soothes the brittle, ragged spikes of his uncertainty, and calms the erratic knock of his heart. His lips tremble and he presses them together tightly. This is what he’d been needing without realizing it. He knows now. He can feel it. 

“He’s good, Peter,” he whispers to the werewolf, awed. “He’s good. He’s not a curse.” He wipes roughly, hastily at his eyes. He hadn’t been sure. Not one hundred percent and the thought was so terrifying that he’d shoved it as deep as it would go. Stupid. He should have listened to his own magic from the beginning.

Peter’s arms tighten around him, eyes a burning blue looking into his own and the glow inside him intensifies. 

Oh. He wonders if their son is responding to his father. 

“Sweetheart,” the were says, “I don’t know what you-”

“I can feel him,” Stiles whispers and moves to stand, letting Peter help him up. “Here,” he says and takes the were’s hand placing it on his belly. “I can feel our baby, Peter. I think he loves us,” he adds, laughing giddily as the warmth inside him expands until it feels like he’s been lit from within. He turns, burrowing into Peter’s arms. 

Peter’s heart is pounding under Stiles’ ear and he pulls back enough to look at the were. He wants to reassure his mate, wishes Peter could feel what he does. 

“It’s okay,” he murmurs letting his hands caress their way up Peter’s arms and over his shoulders, bodies all-but melded together and pulls, bringing Peter’s face close, feeling his breath against his lips. “Peter,” he murmurs, moving to close the distance between them. Any distance is too much. He tilts his head-

And jerks back at the blare of sirens and screech of tires outside. Oh no.

Peter grumbles in annoyance. 

“Tell me you didn’t call my dad.” 

His tone is nearly pleading and he’s not sure who he’s addressing but he’s still surprised when it’s Peter who says, “You’re his son. He had to know.”

Something out front slams so hard all the dogs begin barking and howling. Apparently, they’d been too overcome with fear of Peter to make a sound until then. 

“Stiles!”

Oh fuck. 

The sheriff barrels into the room with Parrish following close behind.

Stiles steps away from Peter self-consciously, not looking at Deaton, flushing when he realizes that he’d been about to make out with the were right in front of the other man. 

“Hey, Dad.”

“Jesus, kid,” his dad groans, yanking Stiles into a hug. “Way to give me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, sorry, but I’m okay. Promise.” He grins as his dad pulls back a bit to look at him. “I’m better than okay, actually.”

His dad runs a hand over his head. “Christ. What happened?”

“We were just getting to that,” Peter says darkly and turns to Deaton. “Explain to me why my mate isn’t protected by the pixie spell like you assured me before I kill you,” he snarls at the veterinarian.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Your phrasing needs a little work, Peter. You’re supposed to say ‘tell me _or_ I’ll kill you.’ Not that you should kill anybody,” he adds hastily when his dad sighs loudly and looks heavenward.

“Yours is a unique case, Stiles,” Deaton says, speaking directly to him. “And there is very little useful information I can draw from. My understanding based on my research and our own experiments is that you are impervious to outside hurt.” 

The sheriff crossed his arms and frowned. “But he can still suffer anxiety attacks.”

“It would seem so,” the vet agreed. “I believed that Stiles would be invulnerable to all harm, but this attack he suffered ...”

Stiles exhaled sharply. “I should keep my inhaler handy. Check.”

“There is one more thing, Stiles,” Deaton adds, looking truly contrite. “I should have told you sooner …”

Stiles grabs Peter’s arm when the were tenses. “Don’t you dare. We need Deaton.”

The veterinarian clears his throat. “From what you’ve said, part of what triggered your panic attack was the uncertainty of the nature of your child. There’s not much information on situations like yours, but all lore I’ve found so far agrees on one thing. Pixies give fertility as a gift. It’s their ultimate gift, in fact.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “Jesus. Talk about the world’s worst gift-givers. Why me?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. My best hypothesis is that they see you as the protector of their home. You are a spark, after all, and you’ve been at the center of not only keeping Beacon Hills safe but also the creation of alliances between humans, hunters and an assortment of supernatural creatures.”

“I stumbled onto a pixie circle,” Stiles argues shaking his head. “Isn’t that why I’m pregnant?”

Deaton walks over to the exam table and begins putting away supplies. “Your pregnancy wasn’t an accident, Stiles. And it wasn’t a curse. The creation of life takes a colossal amount of power. You can’t simply stumble onto it.”

“Oh.” Stiles swallows. He leans back, letting Peter take his weight and tries to forget that they have an audience. There’s a low buzzing tremble beginning in his lower limbs that’s sapping his strength. That little episode had scared him more than he wants to admit. 

“I’m sorry I hadn’t told you, Mr. Stilinski, but I wanted to do more digging. I don’t like being wrong, and I didn’t want to give you the wrong information.” His gaze drops to Stiles’ less than steady hands. “Jumping to the wrong conclusions can be very dangerous.”

Peter grumbles and pulls Stiles back more firmly into his body, arms around his waist. One of Peter’s hands drops to his belly, and he kisses Stiles’ nape.

It probably speaks to how shaken his dad is that he doesn’t so much as twitch at that and Stiles is feeling too drained to care. The thought has only just finished forming when Peter sweeps him up into his arms effortlessly with his outrageous strength. 

“Hey!” Stiles struggles, shoving an elbow into Peter’s chest because _hell no_. This day has been humiliating enough without being carried out of a vet clinic. “Put me down. I can walk.”

Peter doesn’t even have the decency to break a sweat as he pins Stiles’ arms against his chest, immobilizing him. “Not happening, darling,” he growls. “Stay still.”

“Goddammit,” he mutters subsiding, flushed to the roots of his hair. 

Parrish looks amused and he grabs his dad’s arm as the sheriff takes an affronted step toward them. He says something quietly to the older man that actually makes his dad pause and look at Peter more closely. He sighs. “Hale, can you take him home and keep an eye on him?”

“Wha-? Dad!” He squawks, outraged.

“I’m not leaving his side,” Peter asserts unyielding. He turns, then glances back at his dad. “I’ll send you an update every hour.”

His dad looks startled at that, then pleased. “I appreciate that.” 

Oh no. Oh god. How had he not seen this coming? “You two are not allowed to join forces against me!” he yells as Peter walks to the hole where the door to the vet clinic had once stood. His dad’s speculative gaze follows them and Stiles sinks into Peter’s arms with a huff, trying to ignore his misgivings. “You can forget it,” he tells Peter fervently. “You’re not going to win over my dad.”

Peter smirks at him as he sets Stiles on his feet, popping open the passenger door of his Porsche 918 Spyder. Stiles rolls his eyes at the ridiculous show of opulence. “I wouldn’t bet on it, sweetheart. I have every intention of winning over my future father-in-law,” the were counters, helping Stiles into the seat. 

Stiles flushes as Peter leans over him, buckling his seatbelt, their faces just inches apart. It feels too inmate to be this close in the small, enclosed space of the car. He ignores the nervous clench of his stomach as Peter rounds the car. He’s going to do it. He’s not going to let Peter die. When the were takes a seat behind the wheel and starts the engine Stiles reaches over and threads his fingers with the werewolf’s. 

He pretends not to see Peter’s startled glance, then slow, pleased grin.


	6. Chapter 6

“Mm. Okay, that’s all the drinks we need.” He taps the list on his phone, thinking. “Did you grab the turkey?”

Erica yawns as she pushes the shopping cart behind him. “No, Derek said he’d take care of it.”

Stiles raises an impressed eyebrow in her direction as he skirts a harrowed-looking woman with three wailing kids. “He cooks?” he asks distractedly. He stares after the woman, watches her try to soothe the youngest in the baby sling strapped to her chest while the other two jump up and down on the cart and scream. The joys of parenthood. He places an uneasy hand over the lump mostly concealed by his baggy sweater.

“Not well,” she admits, and he snorts.

“Have a plan B for the turkey. Check.”

He turns and scans the shelves of canned cranberries. “Are we missing anything?”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Erica grimaces, and glances pointedly at their overflowing cart then tosses in a bag of chips as they make their way to the register. “You should have just taken Peter up on his offer to have everything catered.”

Stiles sniffs, affronted. “Where’s your holiday spirit? Cooking is part of the fun. Besides,” he admits sheepishly, “it’ll keep me busy and I won’t have time to freak out over everyone coming over.”

“Everyone you invited,” Erica reminds him, unsympathetic. “In some cases blackmailed.”

Stiles doesn’t bother denying it. “Come on, I wanna grab a few decorations.”

He ignores Erica’s despairing wail. 

“Quit your whining. You didn’t have to come with me.”

“Didn’t have to come?” Erica jerks to a stop and stares at him in disbelief. “Is that a joke?” She raises her hand in a fist to punch his shoulder then freezes, looking around with paranoid suspicion and lowers it again. “Do you have any idea how much Derek freaked when he heard Peter howl like that yesterday?”

Stiles trips over his feet. “He wha-? Huh?”

“Yeah.” Erica glares and crosses her arms. “We all heard. But by the time we got to the clinic you were gone. Good thing Dr. Deaton calmed him down or he’d have torn apart the town.”

Stiles … has no idea what to say.

“So, no, you weren’t going to come by yourself,” she finishes and pushes at the cart again. “You’re lucky they’re letting you out of the house.”

Stiles manages to follow without stumbling over his own feet. It’s a little … intimidating the way everyone has closed ranks around him. He knows he’s pack, but this is something entirely different. They’re protective of his son. All of them. Maybe a little too much, he thinks dryly, remembering Boyd raising an unamused eyebrow at him and stealing his loaded pizza to replace it with a very unimaginative salad. They’re going to drive him crazy at this rate but, for now, he kind of gets the warm and fuzzies thinking about it. Like the onset of a rash.

 

“Lydia!” Stiles greets happily the next day as he throws open the door. “Man, I almost thought you weren’t gonna make it.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she assures him, dangerous grin in place. “Jackson, be careful with those. They’re fragile!” She yells over her shoulder at the were who’s juggling a mountain of gifts. 

“Uh, Lydia, I specifically said no gifts,” he reminds her. He opens the door wider, the chill of the early December afternoon caressing his face. It’s a beautiful, brisk day, though there’s not hint of snow on the horizon. 

Lydia turns back to him, sniffing condescendingly. “They’re not for you. They’re for my nephew. It’s his first Christmas, after all.”

“No, it’s not. He’s not even born yet.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I kind of see Peter’s point now,” he admits ruefully. 

She waves that away, pulling off her red leather gloves. “You’re unlucky enough to have the pack’s first baby, you better get used to everyone going all-out. Are you telling me you haven’t seen the back seat of Derek’s camaro? It’s loaded.”

“Oh God,” he laughs, pained. He pulls her close and hugs her tightly, her perfume enveloping him comfortingly. “You look great by the way,” he tells her as she tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

She lets her gaze drift over him, head to foot. “Ditto,” she says as she steps back to take in his black dress slacks, black dress shoes, and simple but elegant white dress shirt rolled up to the forearms and open at the neck. “Wow.” A speculative gleam enters her eyes. “Trying to impress someone, Stiles?” she asks slyly.

Stiles flushes. “What? No!”

She huffs a laugh. “Of course not.” Lydia’s gaze flicks up, past Stiles’ shoulder and he knows, from the way she stiffens and her smiles drops, that it’s Peter.

“Ms. Martin.”

“Hale,” she responds frostily.

Stiles feels his gut clench and jumps when Peter extends his arm out. It takes him a second to realize that the were’s holding a small but expensively wrapped gift box out to Lydia.

“Peter, you can’t apologize with money,” he groans, pushing the werewolf back. 

Lydia raises a delicate, perfectly shaped strawberry-blond eyebrow. “I beg to differ. Those are the best types of apologies.” She saunters past a gaping Stiles and takes the box, then stands toe-to-toe with Peter. Stiles sees Allison tense in the background. “But that doesn’t mean you’re forgiven. I’ll forgive you when you prove you’re a man worthy of Stiles. And if you ever hurt him,” she murmurs, voice dropping to a terrifying octave, “I know of ways to dispose of you that will not leave a trace. There’ll be no coming back from that, I promise you.”

All the werewolves in the room stand frozen, though they’re desperately trying to pretend they haven’t heard anything. 

“If I don’t prove worthy of him, my death will be no loss,” Peter replies and from the number of jaws that come unhinged at that, Stiles guesses that he’s being honest. 

Lydia looks satisfied and turns to link her arm through Stiles’. “All right, Stilinski, where’s the booze?”

“Locked in the gun safe,” he answers, mouth on autopilot glancing back at Peter. “Apparently, my dad doesn’t trust us not to spike the punch.”

Lydia laughs. “Your father is a very wise man.”

They grab refreshments and make their way to where Allison, Scott, Boyd, Erica, and Derek are sitting in the living room and Stiles laughs softly into his drink as he pretends he doesn’t see Jackson struggling to get in the front door. He snorts when the were knocks into the wall and Lydia reaches over and smacks the back of his head. “But it’s funny,” he protests in a loud whisper and sees her lips twitch.

“I heard that Stilinski!” 

 

Stiles is snickering quietly to himself when a sharp poke at his shoulder makes him turn. 

Jackson is frowning. “What are you laughing to yourself about?”

He inclines his head to the far end of the kitchen where Parrish is ‘helping’ his dad with dessert. The counters are loaded with every kind of store-bought pie, but his dad has always been big on tradition, and he’s been making apple pie from scratch for Christmas since before his mom died. The memory doesn’t reignite the flare of pain it usually does. Stiles watches him grin and laugh like he hasn’t in a long time. His dad might have a shot at happiness again and Stiles is grateful. So grateful. Jordan is slicing up apples at the cutting board and he glances up, flushing brightly when Stiles not-so-discreetly gives him the thumbs up. His dad’s jaw had just about come unhinged when he’d seen Jordan in his jeans, green striped button-down and black leather jacket combo. The two men seem to be having some trouble maneuvering the kitchen area because there’s an awful lot of bumping into each other in the ample space, followed by long, lingering gazes when the other isn’t looking.

“Gross. Don’t tell me someone else fell for the nonexistent Stilinski charm.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the-”

“Ugh, shut up,” Jackson grumbles halfheartedly, shoving him out of the way. Stiles is unsurprised when a hand clamps down punishingly on Jackson’s arm and he smirks, swaggering away as Jackson cries out, “I barely even touched him!” 

If he’s gotta suffer through healthy food -- his dad is vengefully gleeful about that -- he’s damn well going to enjoy the perks of having a crazy overprotective mate and pack. He leaves Peter to chat with -- a.k.a. threaten -- Jackson. He’s not running away, no sirree. He hasn’t been avoiding Peter all night. Of course not. He’s very glad Peter decided to show up. And boy-howdy, he’d shown up all right. In a devastating dark-gray suit with a silky-looking royal blue vest that accented his eyes, making his irises pop like the blue of fairytale seas. God, he’d nearly made a fool of himself when he’d laid eyes on the man. He’d all-but salivated right in front of him. It didn’t bear remembering that Derek had coughed awkwardly after Stiles had stood there, struck, staring for a long minute and suggested -- embarrassed -- that Stiles go freshen up. Because the weres had smelled his arousal. Peter had smelled his arousal. His eyes had flashed even brighter and Stiles knows that if it hadn’t been for the hand his dad clamped down on his shoulder, Peter wouldn’t have held back. 

He can feel the blood traveling southward as he tries to think about something else. Anything else. He nods at Isaac in passing, but doesn’t stop when the were opens his mouth. Nope. No time. He’s getting hard. Jesus, his hormones are insane, even for a teenager. This can’t be normal, nobody would ever get through high school if it was. He thinks about earlier, thinks about what would have happened if he’d taken Peter’s hand, if he’d asked--

God, they’d be in his bedroom now, together, naked. The thought makes him breathe out sharply. He’s never had another fully naked body touch his own, chest to chest, groin to groin. He reaches the bathroom and quickly shuts the door behind himself, breathing heavily now, imagining it. He has no idea what it would really be like because he’s a virgin, just the thought of seeing Peter’s cock nearly fries his brain. He shivers, his hand twitching toward his own cock. No. No, he can’t. He has a houseful of werewolves and he will never live it down if he jerks off mid-way through the Christmas party. 

The knock at the bathroom door doesn’t come as a surprise. “Sweetheart.”

Stiles swallows and leans back against the door, hand clutching the doorknob. He wants to throw it open, throw himself into Peter’s arms and damn the consequences. It’s getting harder and harder to stay away from him, to deny them both. Is that because of the bond? Is it because of his pregnancy? Or maybe he’s finally gotten sick of lying to himself. 

“I can smell you.” Peter sounds closer now, voice low, guttural, like he’s talking through fangs, like he’s whispering right into Stiles’ ear and Stiles whimpers, cock hardening impossibly more, pressing painfully against the fly on his slacks. 

He can hear Peter breathing heavily, knows just how easily Peter could rip the door open, but he won’t, Stiles knows. He’s not even asking to come inside. He’s not asking Stiles to let him in. Who’d have thought Peter would the one to exercise restraint? 

There’s the sound of a claw being dragged down the white-stained wood of the door and that alone nearly makes Stiles come. “Do it, Stiles,” Peter murmurs heatedly. “You need it. Let me hear you.”

Oh god. He can’t. Right? Oh god.

“Baby.”

And, yeah, okay, that growly rumble does it. Stiles pops the button on his pants and carefully negotiates the zipper, hands shaking. He bites his lip against the groan that threatens to tear out of his throat when he gets a hand around himself. Jesus, he’s already leaking, so hot for it. Hotter than he’s ever been because Peter is here, is listening. “Peter,” he groans, just because he can, because he wants the other man’s name in his mouth. Wants more than his name in his mouth. He gasps at the thought and he hears a crack outside. Did Peter puncture the door? “Say something, Peter.”

There’s a low snarl from outside, but nothing more. 

“Please.”

“Can’t … talk, … Stiles.” God, Peter is breathless, thunder in his voice. He must be wolfed out. Too many teeth making speaking difficult. Is he jerking off in the hallway? Not likely, but Stiles spits in his hand and strokes himself to the thought, fiercely, quickly, no desire to be slow or gentle. He needs it now, needs it fast and hard like he imagines Peter would give it to him if he weren’t a virgin.

It doesn’t take long for him to come. No time at all, really. Not with how turned on he is while listening to Peter’s breaths through the door. Two, three, four more pulls on his wet, overheated cock and he shoots more than he ever has before, his come arching to splatter on the floor. His knees give out as he twitches, whimpering, trying to milk the last of the orgasm out of himself, cock becoming too tender. He slides down the door, panting with the aftershocks. If just spanking his monkey in the vicinity of Peter is this good, actual sex with him might kill Stiles.

He snorts at the thought and knocks at the door with the back of his head. “You okay?” he asks, into the strained, inhuman panting.

“Stiles.” The name is nearly indecipherable as human speech.

Stiles closes his eyes. He wants Peter. So much. And, surprisingly, it’s not just sexual. No, he wants Peter’s arms around him, wants to spend time with him, wants -- say it -- wants Peter in his life. Christ. He’s still adjusting to that one. And he wants all of that starting now. Fuck this. Peter is his mate, there’s no reason for them to stay away from each other. 

Determined, he gets to his feet, carefully tucking himself away -- ugh, he needs another shower -- and opens the door. In time to watch Peter sprint down the hallway and throw open the window, launching himself outside in his wolfed-out form. Stiles gapes. What the--?

“He’ll be back.”

Stiles yelps and steps back as Jordan materializes next to him. 

The deputy keeps his eyes averted, face flushed. He stares at the opposite wall and takes slow breaths through his mouth. “He probably needs to … work off some energy.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to do an imitation of a tomato and he glares as Parrish’s lips quirk. 

“So, listen,” the officer begins, after a moment, awkwardly.

Stiles holds up a hand. “If you’re going to try to lecture me--”

“No!” Parrish sighs and rolls his shoulders, finally turning to look at Stiles. “You’ll be eighteen in a few months. I’m not going to lecture you. I’m just trying to say, I understand the frustration of wanting to be with someone who … puts up roadblocks.”

Oh, right. Stiles grimaces. “Yeah.”

“And I won’t tell your dad, but maybe don’t give him a reason to have a heart attack on Christmas?”

“Because you want the privilege?” he shoots back slyly. 

Parrish looks heavenward -- strange that so many people have that reaction to Stiles -- and turns to walk away. “You know, I think I’ll use the upstairs bathroom.”

 _Good idea_ , Stiles thinks, looking back guiltily. He has some cleanup to do. 

 

“So, what did Peter get you?” he pries two hours later when Lydia corners him in his bedroom. His absence had been noted, of course it had, but nobody wanted to bring up the reason for it. Jackson’s face had developed a perma-sneer and Scott refused to make eye-contact. 

And, yeah, he is absolutely not thinking about that. He’d hidden in the bathroom as long as he could before Derek had finally dragged him out, though he’d only graduated to hiding in his bedroom.

Lydia hums lightly. “A diamond-encrusted gold pendant.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “What?” he asks, strangled. 

Lydia smirks. “He must really like you, Stiles.”

“Me? I’m not the one who got a diamond-encrusted necklace,” he grouses, making Lydia laugh.

“He didn’t give me that necklace for my sake, Stiles. He gave me that token because he’s serious about you. He doesn’t want to have any friction with you over me. At least, not that kind of friction,” she adds, winking.

“Low-hanging fruit, Lydia,” he groans. “I expect more from you.”

“And I expect more from _you_ ,” she retorts sharply. “Please don’t tell me you’re jealous that he gave me a lousy necklace. It’s probably not worth more than a few thousand dollars.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. Again. Even further. “That’s more than my car is worth!”

“Well then, dearest, maybe you should buy yourself a new car with his money. He would lay it at your feet.”

“I just don’t get why he’d try to buy everyone else’s affections but mine.”

Lydia punches him on the arm and he yowls, rubbing at the offended area, though it doesn’t actually hurt. “It’s because your affection isn’t for sale, idiot. That’s probably one of the reasons he loves you, or some other equally nausea-inducing sentiment I’m sure.”

“My, my,” Peter murmurs from the doorway. “You’re nearly as intelligent as my mate.”

Stiles tries not to look and fails in five seconds flat. His gaze drinks Peter in. There’s not a hair out of place out on the man, though he removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. It makes him about ten times hotter and Stiles’ mouth goes desert-dry.

Lydia’s eyes narrow, though she doesn’t look particularly offended. “It seems love does make fools of everyone,” is all she says, flouncing up and sashaying from the room. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Peter never takes his eyes from Stiles, gaze heated, making him squirm on the bed.

“You’re back. So, um, how much did you hear?”

“Enough,” the man says, coming into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

Stiles swallows and doesn’t quake when Peter follows the movement with his eyes. 

“I’ve been very good, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, stalking to the bed. “So very good today.” He sits next to Stiles, one hand reaching out to cup the teen’s cheek, caressing his jaw. “Don’t I deserve a reward?”

Stiles shivers, hand reaching up and grabbing Peter’s, though he makes no move to displace it. “You’re the one who bailed, now you want positive reinforcements? You’re not a puppy.”

“No,” Peter agrees. He leans forward and places a soft, hot kiss at the edge of Stiles’ lips, his warm breath fanning against the sensitive skin, making Stiles glad he’s sitting down because his knees weaken. “I’m your werewolf mate and I had to listen to you masturbate with nothing but a flimsy door between us. I had to hear your moans. I smelled your come, baby. And I’ve had to watch you smile and touch everyone here tonight but me.” The were’s eyes glimmer that electric, alarming blue as he pulls back. It’s a good reminder that for all that Peter is better after his psychotic break, he’s still not entirely stable.

Stiles keeps perfectly still. 

“I’m not a saint, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, voice made of gravel. “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking that my patience and affection make me your neutered pet.”

“What?” Stiles barely manages to get the word out past his dry throat. He shoves off the bed and glares. “What the hell is the matter with you? Who the hell could possibly think of you as tame? Jesus.” He runs an agitated hand over his hair before simply throwing his hands up and turning to leave.

The hand at his elbow stops him.

“Tell me you haven’t been showing me off to everyone tonight. Showing them that you have me on a tight leash,” he says, quiet and brutal. His hand slides down Stiles’ forearm and tightens on his wrist, fingers almost unconsciously caressing at his pulse.

Stiles jerks his hand away. “I’ve been trying to show everyone that you can be civil. That you’re pack and they can trust you.” His lips tighten. “Even though I’m not completely sure of that myself.”

Something shifts in Peter’s expression, some darkly pleased, possessive emotion gliding behind his eyes as he places a proprietary hand over Stiles’ heart. “You trust me?”

“Like I said, I don’t know.”

Peter grins, a hint of elongated canines showing through. “You trust me.”

Stiles’ heart jumps and he curses that damn werewolf ability that divulges his secrets even before he’s aware he has them. “It’s not just about me, Peter. They have to trust you too. If we’re going to be a successful pack we need to be sure of each other.”

“Of course,” the were murmurs, standing, looming over Stiles, all heat and power.

“You need to trust them too,” he adds a little hoarsely, mesmerized by the panther-like sleekness.

“Mmhmm.”

“Peter,” he manages, past a tight throat.

“Tell me you want me.” Blunt and seductive as he only he can be.

Stiles backs slowly into the door, aware even as he is retreating that Peter can smell his interest. He swallows, throat clicking dryly. Yes. Yes, he wants Peter. Has wanted him for longer than even his twisted brain has been comfortable admitting, and he would have gladly kept living in denial for the rest of time because the fierce heat that ignites inside him whenever Peter gets too close is dangerous, destructive. They’re hazardous materials, the two of them.

Despite that, he can’t make his hand turn the door handle. Can’t walk away.

“Come here, Stiles,” Peter cajoles, not stepping any closer. “I want you to admit you want me. Say the words.”

Oh christ. Oh fuck. His legs shake, his dick fully hard now, obscenely highlighted by his slacks and he sees Peter’s gaze drop to that straining hardness. The were licks his lips and the last of Stiles’ restraint fractures.

He takes one step closer, two, three. The last step brings him flush against Peter and he inhales sharply as Peter’s arms close around him tightly, too tight but it’s exactly what he needs. “I want you, Peter,” he says clearly, though his voice shakes ever-so-slightly. 

He’s surprised at the infinitesimal relaxing of the were’s muscles. 

Had he really been worried? He’d never thought of Peter as insecure or needing reassurance, that’s generally Stiles’ area. “And I want you to teach me everything it means to be your mate.”

Peter stares, still, waiting.

“And I don’t want that because of the baby.” He takes a breath. “I’ve wanted you for much longer than that. I remember you, you know? From before the fire,” he admits, hushed, not wanting to bring up that dark horror of Peter’s past, but he needs to say this. “You probably thought I didn’t. I wanted you to think I didn’t.” He shrugs, sheepish, at Peter’s raised eyebrow. “That day is seared into my brain.”

Stiles knows from the way Peter closes his eyes and breathes out that the older man remembers as well. He’d wondered. The fire had taken so much from Peter, he’d thought it might have taken that memory too. 

“Life is more than just tragedy, Stiles.”

Yes, those had been the words of that long-ago day. Before Peter had succumbed to his own tragic story. “I remember everything about that day.”

_He was sitting on one of the two blue swings in the lonely playground a mile from his house, kicking his feet at the ground to set the swing in motion. The chains squeaked sadly. The only sound in the whole world. Scott was still in school. Stiles was supposed to be in school too, but he’d skipped. What did it matter? What did anything matter? He was staring, unseeing, at the ground and that was his first clue that he wasn’t alone. A pair of dress shoes came into his line of sight. They looked super clean. Kind of like the shoes people had worn to his mom’s funeral. He didn’t glance up._

__

_He still didn’t glance up when the man took a seat on the swing next to his and rocked it lightly back and forth. Stiles could see he was tall, probably as tall as his dad and he wondered why the guy didn’t say the dumb stuff everyone else did. Stuff like ‘I’m sorry for your loss’. Stiles wanted to rage whenever someone said that. He wanted to hit and scream but he sucked it all up instead and said nothing. Not even Scott understood him. He’d just look at Stiles with sad eyes and hug him, but those hugs weren’t like his mom’s hugs. He’d never feel his mom’s hugs ever again. Never._

__

__

__

_The thought made his throat close which was the only reason he didn’t burst into sobs. And then he clutched at his chest because it was getting harder to breathe. His lungs seemed to close down. There was no air. Just as he was panicking the man suddenly appeared in front of him, kneeling right in front of the swing and he placed a hand over Stiles heart. “Breathe, Stiles,” he commanded, voice deep and he sounded almost angry. Maybe scared. But Stiles wasn’t scared at all because just like that, he could breathe again._

____

__

____

_He gasped in several lungfuls of air, feeling light. How weird. “How do you know my name?” he asked, once he got his breath back._

_____ _

__

_____ _

_The man hummed but didn’t answer. He took his hand away and sat again on the swing. Stiles frowned, feeling weird again. The sadness came back, the darkness that invaded his mind like a cloud of pain and anger began to coalesce. He nearly panicked a second time, but the stranger immediately set his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, a heavy, comforting weight and everything vanished. The clouds, the darkness, the terrible grim guilt all pushed back._

______ _ _

__

______ _ _

_Why that hand should be so comforting, he didn’t know. It seemed to seep the pain right out of him so that it didn’t feel like an elephant was sitting on his chest anymore. It was the first time since his mom got sick he hadn’t felt crushed. He sobbed out in relief and clutched that hand tighter to his neck, wishing it would never end._

_______ _ _ _

__

_______ _ _ _

_“Life is more than just tragedy, Stiles,” the man said kindly. “Don’t ever forget that you have someone else who loves you. Completely. Utterly. You are his whole world.”_

________ _ _ _ _

__

________ _ _ _ _

_Stiles looked up, surprised, and the man slowly reached over and brushed his tears away, warm fingers gentle on his flushed cheeks. Stiles wanted to follow that kind touch. He stayed still because his dad said he shouldn’t talk to strangers and he was already breaking that rule. He didn’t want to make his dad sad anymore. “You think my dad still loves me?” He wanted to take the question back right away because it seemed to make the man sad, he could feel it in his chest, and he was tired of making people sad. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. He had to be strong, had to look out for his dad because sometimes he drank too much and forgot to eat._

_________ _ _ _ _ _

__

_________ _ _ _ _ _

_The man opened his mouth, but closed it again and swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet, before looking at Stiles again and smiling. “Yes,” he assured, “your father loves you. Very much. He could never stop loving you, Stiles.”_

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

__

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Stiles nodded and jumped off the swing. He wanted to stay and cheer the man up because he still felt sad to Stiles, but it was getting late and his dad would swing by in his patrol car to make sure Stiles was home by three. He turned back at the end of the street to wave goodbye but the man was already gone._

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“You were a child,” Peter says and it sounds like he’s protesting.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, smiling, “and I didn’t even know your name. It used to drive me crazy when I would think about you.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Did that a lot, did you?” Peter asks, amused, as he lets Stiles push him back towards the bed. He sits on the ugly plaid comforter thrown haphazardly on the mattress, amused, but stops smiling when Stiles throws a leg over both of his and makes himself comfortable on Peter’s lap. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He tenses, freezes. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“I’d always wanted to thank you for helping me.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Peter wants to tell him it’s not necessary, wants to say that he wishes he could have done more back then, but Stiles had been a child and Peter’d never had any intention of approaching him until Stiles was out of college. Losing his family in the fire a year later had been a tragedy, but losing his mate had broken him. “Stiles--”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Thank you, Peter,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Peter, shifting forward so their breaths mingle. “Thank you.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Peter’s hands lift to Stiles’ waist and he doesn’t stop it -- can’t stop it -- when Stiles leans forward the rest of the way and presses warm, slightly chapped, trembling lips to his. It’s an inexperienced, unpolished kiss. There’s nothing about it that should ignite desire unlike anything Peter’s ever known before. He wants to take, needs to take, to touch and kiss and worship every inch of his mate, but that can’t happen. It’s not the right time. He hadn’t stayed away as long as he had only to ruin everything now in a single moment. Even so, he can’t stop altogether. He coaxes Stiles lips apart and dips his tongue inside, tasting, groaning as Stiles shifts closer, pulling him in, pushing his ass onto Peter’s hardness.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles gasps and moans. “Oh yes, oh please,” he begs. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

He’s begging so prettily and he smells so good it nearly kills Peter to pull back, to look into eyes dilated with desire and say, “We can’t. One, you’re not ready, and two, your father is downstairs, Stiles.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

The teen doesn’t seem to understand for a moment, then he groans in disbelief, dropping his head onto Peter’s shoulder. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Peter pulls back, helping Stiles get his feet under himself again. He’s surprised the sheriff hasn’t already stormed into his son’s bedroom and he’s not about to push his luck.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles takes a deep breath, and steps back, straightening his shirt, not looking as Peter adjusts himself and takes those quick few steps toward the door. Ready as he’s going to be. He nods and steps past the door as Peter opens it. “I’m stealing your dessert,” he grumbles, irritated.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Peter grins and takes Stiles’ hand, lifting it to graze his lips across the knuckles in a gesture that makes the teen flush darkly. “I love you, Stiles. You can have anything of mine.”

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

There’s a long drawn-out sigh. “Way to take the fun out it,” Stiles huffs, then turns back and plants a too-brief kiss on Peter’s lips. He takes several steps away, stopping at the top of the stairs, back turned to the were. _What the hell, you only live once, right?_ “I love you too,” he reveals hoarsely, after several beats of silence, so quietly Peter nearly misses it. 

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stiles sprints down the stairs without looking back.

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Okay, sorry about the ridiculous wait. I had way too much on my plate that i was juggling. I kinda still do - a lot of work stuff 'cause I gueeeeeeeeess i need to be a responsible adult or something ridiculous like that *sigh*
> 
> lol, anyway, I hope you liked the much overdue chapter and I will try not to let it be another six months (seven months?) before I update again. 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who commented, you kept me writing. Yay!!


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